My enemy, my brother
by Merdealors
Summary: Jim Moriarty takes what he wants, money, houses or a man. To him, Sherlock is just another piece of property. For Sherlock, it means a journey through a nightmare and beyond, that leads him to the brink of death. As the lives of three men are at jeopardy, the word "brother" gets a completely new meaning...
1. A moment of truth

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything (wish I did).**

**This has not been re-read by a beta; all the language mistakes are mine. Please be merciful though as English is not my original language.**

**A/N: This starts in the very same moment "The Great Game" ends. I've neither seen nor heard anything about the BBC's ideas of how to continue after that, therefore, if this should be unintentionally AU, you must forgive me.**

**_Please!_ review. I need the feedback urgently as this is merdealore's first Sherlock fanfiction ever.**

**1. Moment of truth**

Sherlock forced himself to focus on the thing in front of him. To be more precise: The thing in front of his weapon's muzzle.

The thing that had, only minutes ago, hung around a decent man's neck.

The thing that would explode and take all three of them to oblivion if he fired.

There was nothing else to focus on. If he looked at anything – or anyone – else, his enemy would see how clueless he was, how utterly vulnerable and that was something he could not afford.

Not when John Watson's life was at stake because Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, brainiac and self-styled best-of-the-best, had made a fucking, maddeningly stupid mistake.

He had underrated his enemy. Grossly, idiotically underrated the most dangerous man of all.

"C'me on, Sherlock" Moriarty teased, his unnaturally high-pitched, poncey voice scratching on the Detective's nerves. "You do not really want to blow us all up, do you?" 'Jim-from-the-hospital' opened his eyes even wider in a sarcastic mockery of fear. "Think of your poor loyal pet here. Whatever shall become of him if he's blown to pieces?"

"Shut up" John said but both Sherlock and Moriarty ignored him.

The criminal performed a little childish dance on the spot. He sang "all the King's horses and all the King's men..." while his feet shuffled over the ground.

"What about you Jim?" Holmes asked coldly. Nothing in his demeanour gave away how he really felt. Defenceless. Trapped. And unbelievably guilty. "All these ingenious plots, the great schemes. To end up as strawberry jam on the wall?"

Moriarty stopped his solitary Ring around the Rosie and smiled enthusiastically. "Oh, but it's you who's in the jelly pot. You're wobbling with fear for your little lapdog." He tut-tutted and waggled an admonitory finger. "You won't shoot, no, no, no. Friend Sherlock-who's-suddenly-found-his-heart, he won't shoot."

"Listen, you nitwit..." John started to say whilst he tried to get up. However, he stopped when only halfway up because the three flickering dots of orange light respectively dancing on his and Sherlock's chest suddenly became one dot concentrated on each man's throat. A broad hint at the six snipers that covered them. Inescapably.

"Hush your mouth!" Moriarty's infuriated roar rang from the walls of the pool area. "Nobody's interested in what you have to say!"

Sherlock swallowed furtively to steady his voice as best he could. "As you were, John!"

Discouraged by the sight of the death mark on his friend's neck, Watson sank back to the floor.

"What a fine sight an obedient doggy is" Jim sang, his sudden outburst already forgotten. Enjoying the game. Enjoying the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Enjoying his superiority. His power.

This was great. This was better than he'd ever anticipated. Much better. Much,much, much, _much_ better.

Moriarty's shining dark eyes fixed on his opponent. The only worthy opponent he'd ever met in battle. In his life. Who needed a friend if he could have such unparalleled rivals instead? "You think this is it Sherlock, don't you. You think this is the end. You think you and your little doggy are dead. Your best chance is to take me with you."

"It's your game, Jim. You tell me."

Holme's hand trembled, ever so slightly. Almost invisibly.

Yet Jim saw it all. Heard it all. Smelled it all. There was the fascinating odour of sweat in the air. The weakest tremor in the detective's voice.

Scare.

Terror.

Moriarty sniffed the air as a connoisseur. Like the predator he was, smelling the blood of an injured prey. The most exhilarating aroma the world had to offer.

"Stupid detective. Stupid, stupid Sherlock. All the time staring at things. All the time missing the perfectly obvious!"

"Which is?"

"Which is the obvious way for all three of us to come out of this in one piece!"

"Which _is_?"

"Which is: You come with me like a good boy and we say no more about it." Moriarty made the sign of a cross with his thumb. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Dumbfounded, Watson looked from one man to the other. _What_?

Holmes also cocked a questioning brow. "I do beg your pardon?"

"Watch it, Sherlock!"

Startled by Watson's sudden outcry Holmes spun round, only to curse his - and John's – foolishness immediately as his weapon came around with him, losing sight of the explosive bundle which so far had been their only ticket to safety.

But nothing happened.

Nothing but The Golem, who had been sneaking upon him from behind, halting in mid-stride before he showed his gruesome teeth in a grimace that bore no resemblance to a human smile.

"My game, Sherlock. Shall I teach you the rules? Shall I, shall I, shall I? Come on, say I shall" Jim sweet talked from his former place. He hadn't moved at all.

Holmes side-stepped until he had his weapon trained at the explosives once more while keeping a watchful eye on The Golem.

An absurd, unfounded hope stirred inside the harassed detective. A game. This was still a game. No intention to end it prematurely then. After the game, boredom would come back. Boredom was far, far worse than death.

Play, Sherlock. Play for both your lives. There's always a way. Think! _Use your loaf! _"All right, Jim. Teach me the rules."

"Lay the ugly shooter down, Sherlock. Push it to your doggy with your foot."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Your lapdog can have the bone, he's drooling for it anyway."

The detective hesitated. The automatic was his – their – only protection. But then, how much protection came from a weapon that threatened him and John as much as it threatened their enemy?

Play ball, Sherlock. Think, damn you, do the maths! Play the game. As long as you play, you will live. _John_ will live!

Watson flinched when Holmes kicked the weapon towards him, just as he had been ordered to do. Hesitatingly the surgeon picked the automatic up, waiting for the reassuring feeling it's weight usually gave him. But not this time.

Somehow this was going awry. Somehow this was spiralling downhill. Even more so than before, although that seemed hardly possible.

"Come, little doggy, where's the bad bundle, search, search." Moriarty clearly had the time of his life. "Oh, he's found it. Such a clever little boy. Good doggy."

Helplessly John leveled the automatic at the explosives on the ground; an empty, totally and absurdly senseless gesture. He stared at his friend's blank face to find the same helplessness there. What now?

"Now I tell you how my game is played" Jim chimed in eagerly. "Our Golem friend will see the great detective out of this dreadful place. Outside they'll both wait for me for exactly five minutes. If I'm not with them by then, naughty Golem will wring ducky Sherlock's neck. Johnny will stay like a good dog 'till after we're gone."

"No way!" Watson said determinedly. Suddenly he knew what to do. No games. Not any more. "You're a coward, you don't wanna die, I know your type."

John's face hardened; he raised the weapon, trying to intimidate the hateful adversary. Resolved, whatever happened, to not leave his friend to the mercy of a sadistic lunatic's whims.

Everything happened at once in the blink of an eye.

"John, don't" Holmes yelled. His voice melded with the sharp, brutal sound of a sniper's shot and Watson's loud, pain-stricken scream when the bullet went through his arm. The automatic flew from his hand and into the water.

The sounds echoed in the huge, empty room like thunder, washed over them, ebbed away, died.

Suddenly it was very quiet.

John knelt on the floor, cradling his wounded wrist in the pit of his other arm. Biting back the pain that shook him. Biting back the tears of wrath that wanted to blind him. All he saw was The Golem effortlessly holding Sherlock in a stranglehold, his other hand firmly clamped over the younger man's mouth and nose.

"Barking dogs never bite" a voice whispered into his ear and with a jerk John realized that Moriarty had strolled over to him. "I knew you wouldn't shoot. Not while he's in here!" A casual wave of the carefully manicured, bloodless hand pointed at the detective whose struggling became weaker with every second he couldn't breathe.

_"___Bullet wound. Shock on impact. Nausea. Reaction slow___." _Somewhere in John's mind the army surgeon evaluated the situation of his body. Clinical, professional. Matter of fact.

The person John Watson however was far from such a state of mind. Fighting the overwhelming sick feeling in his guts, his blurred vision and his straying attention he stared at Moriarty's hatefully sarcastic face. Behind the criminal's shoulder he could see Sherlock cease struggling in The Golem's arms. "Please... he's killing him. Please..."

Watson was too weak to pull away when Jim patted his cheek affectionately. "No, he's not. He's just teaching your arrogant, self-important friend some manners."

With the put on grin of a baddie from one of last century's worst horror movies the criminal pointed at the orange dots that still flickered restlessly over John's body. "Please remain seated until the seat belt sign has been turned off." He bent down to his victim's ear again "if you don't, Sherlock will die before your very eyes and only then my men will blow your head off!"

Looking, indeed _feeling_ like the obedient, dim-witted poodle Moriarty apparently saw in him John stayed as and where he was.

He watched The Golem dragging Holmes away. Sherlock was alive and at least semi-conscious as he moved his feet when the pressure left him no other choice.

The henchman and his captive were halfway through the door when John, through the sound of his own ragged breathing and the increasing noise of the Niagara Falls now astonishingly raging inside his head, heard a muffled scream. His name. Someone was desperately trying to say his name.

"SHERLOCK!"

Moriarty who was casually walking in The Golem's wake turned round one last time and waved a friendly good-bye. "Farewell, little doggy."

Then they were gone.

All was silent.

The hall.

The water.

Everything.

Someone was gasping, though.

And there was something else.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Drip.

Laboriously, most reluctantly John tore his eyes away from the door through which his friend had vanished.

He looked down.

Down. Further down.

Some orange lights. What did they mean? Were they important?

Further down.

Red.

Red liquid pooling in front of him. A constant flow of more red liquid from a hole in his shoulder to the ground.

_Two_ holes?

Wrist! Punctured. Bad hole in wrist.

Shoulder. Punctured too. Bad hole. _Worse_ hole.

Suddenly the orange lights were gone.

_"___Seat belt signs turned off___" _John thought, losing interest in counting holes_. "___Final parking position___." _

He giggled.

He had reached the finals.

This was final.

It had to be, as someone now switched off the lights, one by one, until he was left alone in the dark.

Home.

Time to go home.

Albeit he couldn't.

Something very important was left undone.

Therefore he would get up, accomplish one last mission before he could sleep.

Somewhere in the vast emptiness of a dark, forsaken public swimming pool a man made a weak attempt to climb to his feet before he fell over, closed his eyes and lay completely still.

Outside a compact van drove off with screeching tyres. It's hold stank disgustingly of chloroform.


	2. Caught

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**Here's the second chapter. I hope you like it.**

**2. Caught**

Sherlock felt dizzy and more than a bit sick when he came to and yet he knew immediately who was sitting by his side.

Scrutinizing him. Sizing him up.

_God help me._

"Congratulations, Jim. For a game well played." Even Holmes himself was astonished how very casual, how ordinary and careless he managed to say this, although his voice was croaky from thirst and the chloroform's aftermath.

"I did well, didn't I?" Moriarty's arms were _discouragingly _strong for a captive whose muscles seemed to contain nothing but marmalade when they dragged Sherlock into a sitting position. "I fooled you completely, didn't I?" the criminal rambled on eagerly. "You thought I wanted the silly old memory stick while all the time it was about you and me."

The very thought of 'you and me' brought a bad taste to Sherlock's tongue but he nodded politely, even approvingly. To deny the criminal his much craved appreciation could only lead to disaster.

Happy with Holmes' applause for the moment, Moriarty busied himself with rummaging through a bag behind him and Sherlock used the time to look around, careful not to appear too eager.

The van drove through invisible streets swiftly, it's 's slide door was firmly locked and additionally secured with a strong shackle. Nobody would open it without Jim's permission. Especially not someone whose feet were chained, hands cuffed behind his back and whose every move was watched. The windows were curtained with thick black material.

Some time during his unconsciousness Holmes had thrown up all over himself, but someone had removed the grossest filth. Sure enough he had been dosed with chloroform more than once, so his knowledge of the average time the stuff was effective was no use at all. No clue as to the time elapsed since the pool incident, no contact to the outside world - not even Sherlock Holmes could know where he was.

Which meant, if his ears or acute olfactory senses would not somehow help out he had no chance to...

"Sorry for your little pet. Johnny-boy was in no state to travel." Moriarty's disgustingly cheerful remark captured his prisoner's full attention.

All thoughts about his own situation forgotten, Sherlock was momentarily overwhelmed by the memory of how he had last seen the doctor. Wounded. Bleeding. On his knees and ready to pass out. Or worse. _Much_ worse.

_No! That mustn't be true. John can't be dead. Mycroft found out what I was going to do and he has found John in time. Anything else is unthinkable! I dragged him into this!_

It took all of the Detective's considerable acting talents to lazily cock a brow and return the maniac's smile with a lopsided half grin. "So much the better. Three is one too many, don't you think?" Convincingly debonair he pointed his chin at The Golem's back, who presently acted as his master's chauffeur. "I take it _your_ pet doesn't count?"

The faintest flicker of disappointment showed in Moriarty's features, like a will-o'-the-wisp in a black moor; barely visible before it was gone but terrifying nonetheless. "Don't you want to know what happened to your faithful doggy?"

"All right." Sherlock came to attention as best he could whilst bound and seated. Like an obedient school-kid he repeated his captor's question. "What _did_ happen to my faithful doggy?"

He gasped when Jim back-handed him, hard and at full pelt. In the blink of an eye the lunatic's hand was in Holmes' hair, pulling viciously until the other man was forced to look at him. "Don't you dare take me for an idiot, Sherlock. You cannot bear the thought of something bad happening to your precious Johnny!"

Every part of this speech was accompanied by Sherlock's head being banged against the van's wall with a vengeance until Moriarty gritted his teeth in a visible effort to bit back what he had wanted to add. But Holmes knew it anyway _"You will not wreck my plan. I depend on you caring about what happens to John Watson_!"

There was no advantage in being knocked out, especially not as the van slowed down, obviously reaching its destination. So Sherlock decided to gulp down his pride once more. "All right, all right, I do care. You're right, I do care."

Moriarty let go of Holmes' head when The Golem left the driver's seat. A moment later Sherlock had a first glimpse at their surroundings when Dzundas dragged him out by his feet.

Involuntarily Holmes yelped at the shock of his body and bound arms bumping to the dirty concrete ground with brutal force. Moriarty frowned irritably. "Leave him in one piece I said!" Oskar just grunted for a reply.

The van had stopped inside a huge structure. Dim light filtered through a row of dirty but tall windows. It showed Holmes that less time had passed than he had feared. Still somewhere in Greater London then.

After The Golem had helped him to his – still chained – feet, Sherlock inhaled the dust-ridden but cool air deeply; everything was better than the strangling blend of chloroform, stale sweat and spew in the van's hold. "What now, Jim? Why the long journey, just to finish me off?"

Instead of an answer, Moriarty pivoted, doing a 360, his face a perfect imitation of a child under the Christmas Tree. "Isn't it marvellous?" he shrieked in that poncey voice he loved to take on. "The world's biggest empire; and it showed everyone how ingeniouuuuuuuus it was." His arms waved around as if he wanted to catch the world with them. An expectant gaze met with that of his prisoner. "C'me on, Sherlock. I just gave you the perfect clue. Where are we?"

In the blink of an eye the map of London scrolled before Holmes' inner eye, the distance the van could have covered and the answer was obvious. "Wembley. The Palace of Industry. The only remaining part of the British Empire World Exhibition."

Moriarty's face flushed with sudden joy. "_Very_ good! But then you've been a good kid from the start. All these little puzzles I gave you to solve and you played along with everything I said. Such a good boy."

"Was that why you took these hostages? Because you did _not_ need them to ensure my compliance?"

Jim's eyes widened in feigned surprise and set off all alarm bells in Holmes' mind. "_Mistake_" they screamed at him. "_That was a mistake_."

Instantly Moriarty's ironic grimace proved him right. "Come, come, Sherlock. Your Johnny-doggy - he was different. But the others? You weren't interested in them. The stupid bitch, the old bag, even the kid – they didn't matter to you at all."

Holmes bit his tongue when his enemy caressed his cheek, Oskar's strong grip making sure that he couldn't evade the unwanted physical contact.

"The 1924 Exhibition" Jim muttered absent-mindedly. "There was no need to press the Empire into it either. So much pride in their own ingenuity. Such a wish to show off, to be admired." He pointed at their depressing surroundings, smiling affectionately. "The Great Palace of Industry. A disenchanted illusion of avarice that overreached itself. Sic transit gloria mundi. Doesn't it remind you of someone, my dear Consulting Detective?"

"You're the expert, you tell me!"

Moriarty's soft smile deepened. "You would love to believe in that, wouldn't you? But all the time you know I'm right! I exposed you for what you are – a fake with the appearance of a genius, just like the Vermeer."

From a distance came the sound of an approaching helicopter. Jim laid a hand behind his ear and pretended to listen hard. "My friend Sebastian always has a big entry."

"You don't have friends!" Holmes replied acidly, the suggestion that he was a fake stinging viciously.

"That makes two of us then, doesn't it? Really, Sherlock, we _do_ have such an _awful_ lot in common, you and I." Jim's thumb went up into the air, referring to the helicopter. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, once Royal Air Force. After some ugly experiences he became my buddy, just like your Johnny-boy paired up with a freak like you."

Moriarty saw something going on in Holmes' face at the mentioning of the Royal Air Force, for all the Detective's attempts to keep it blank. "I wouldn't hope for brother Mycroft if I were you. For the records, the Colonel is still an exemplary officer and the helicopter flight comes with all the necessary permits and ordeeeeers."

While virtually singing the last word the lunatic pulled a mobile from his pocket and switched it on. "Johnny-boy's got a voice mail box linked to his blog" he teased, displaying the item in full sight until he could be sure that Holmes had recognized it as his own.

"Guess what? Found the address saved in dear Sherlock's mobile" Moriarty boo-hood in deliberate foolery before he pressed a short-cut. "It's time to say good-bye, Sherlock. Why don't you record a voice-mail and I mail it to your doggy's account?" He waggled the mobile in front of the prisoner's nose.

"_Rot!_" Holmes had already on his lips before he thought better of it.

The constant reminders of John Watson kept the picture of the man bleeding at the pool repugnantly vivid. For some inexplicable reason the remark that he, too, had no friends in his life, that he and Moriarty had a lot in common, rattled Holmes unendurably.

If this was it, if this was the end of the flag pole, he might as well say a proper farewell to the only person in this world he could presently think of as being worthy – in fact deserving – of receiving it.

Besides, recording that message would mean that John wasn't dead. Why or how that should be so – Sherlock had no clue and for once he didn't care.

All of a sudden it meant the world to him that he was _not_ at all like Moriarty. Nobody would dare say that Sherlock Holmes had died friendless!

"All right" he said hoarsely, licking his uncomfortably dry lips. "Let me talk."

Another press of Jim's thumb and the mobile was ready to register some very momentous last words that didn't come to their sender, however much he racked his brain.

"My dear Watson" he began hesitatingly. "_Great. Just great Sherlock. What a heart-warming start!_"

Mercifully Jim kept his face blank, ceasing to mock his captive for the moment whilst the sounds from the helicopter became louder with each passing second. Holmes swallowed hard before he continued more fluently. "You're getting this message through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty before we settle the questions which lie between us. I've formed a very high opinion of his outstanding abilities ….."

Jim grinned, visibly flattered and astonishingly he didn't change his expression when Holmes continued "I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends..." _Yes, that was it, friends. __**Plural**_! "…...and especially, dear Wats..., to you, John. But I could not have thought of a more congenial conclusion to my career than this. Tell my brother that I left the real stick with the Bruce Patterson plans in our flat in the usual hiding place."

Only now Moriarty flinched and lost a bit of his smug, superior attitude.

Assuming that he would live to regret that skit, Holmes spoke faster. "Please give my sincere regards to Mrs Hudson, and to Sarah. Please believe me to be... " _Oh, to hell with it. Let the nutball think what he wants!_ ….."believe me to be, very sincerely, your friend. Sherlock."

"I'm moved to tears" Moriarty said sarcastically. He had to speak louder, to drone out the landing helicopter outside but Sherlock didn't care; he only saw the fingers and the display so very close to his eyes. "_Message recorded. Message sent_."

Whatever would come next, this was done and could not be undone.

"My dear Colonel" Moriarty addressed the person who was approaching them from a spot in Sherlock's back. "Our friend is all yours!"

The faint prick of the injection needle was the last thing Sherlock felt before darkness assumed him once again.

**A/N: Naturally it wasn't me who came up with the message to John. It's taken from the original Sherlock Holmes Story "The adventure of the final problem" by Arthur Conan Doyle. I took the quote as exactly as possible in the modern context, although it meant to include some old-fashioned expressions. But then I thought that Sherlock would be a bit formal under the circumstances.**

**Please, give me some reviews. This is my first story for Sherlock and I'm anxious to find the right tone and atmosphere.**


	3. Solitaire

**3. Solitaire**

John Watson was back. Back where he belonged and where he had vowed never to come back to.

Afghanistan was as he remembered it. Beautiful. Fascinating. If somewhat on the lethal side.

Embedded in the marvellous landscape of Helmand province, between mountains, wild waters, dry deserts and a sky high and open above all, fields were in full bloom, covered in red and green. Death and salvation mixed in one fragile plant.

Mortality had a pretty face where opium poppy thrived. Opium, death bearing livelihood, curse and blessing. Indispensable and appalling at the same time, especially for an army surgeon who knew the value of a reliable pain killer as well as he knew the slow death of a drug addict.

In the middle of all this alien beauty other traps waited for the foreigner who allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. Traps that could cost you a leg, or an arm. Your sanity. Or your life.

John kicked and struggled for all he was worth when the trap closed around him.

It had been such a tranquil looking village, but at its verge tranquillity ended for the medic and the platoon he was with. Within minutes they were fighting for their very lives.

Death had no face, just sound and smell. Snipers' shots. The smell of people bleeding, vomiting, losing control of their bladders. His comrades. His friends. Dying, one by one, while he could do nothing to prevent it, nothing at all.

At the same time, it was all so very irrelevant. Some place in the back of beyond some strangers killed or maimed another group of strangers. They'd never set eyes upon each other, they didn't know each other – and yet a stranger had decided that John Watson's friends should die today. Die in revenge for some dead loved ones John had never met, or for an unknown relative who had been killed by a man wearing the same uniform as John or for some inexplicable ideological or religious differences that neither fed nor housed a man – who knew the reasons or cared for them?

Wrenched in and fought over by two pairs of frantic hands, an old-fashioned gun fired twice. One shot for John's shoulder, the other let an Afghan's face explode, a mere inch away from the surgeon's head.

His attacker was dead, John was dying and still he didn't know why. What the hell was he doing here? Why had he come here? For Queen and country? For himself? To get away from a life too dull? For _what_? Not for the life of him he could remember why the fuck he had come to Afghanistan in the first place.

It took him several minutes to notice that he was crying, the liquid washing pieces of the other man's brain from his eyes. His fingers smeared those remains all over his face when he wiped the tears away. He cried and screamed and hit the ground and cried even harder, even louder. It was strangely liberating. It was important. Someone should cry for the others, for him and for the madness of it all.

Once he had begun crying he found he couldn't stop. He was so very angry and his shoulder hurt so much and the others were dead, and he was desperate; he would go on screaming and kicking and hitting until all the dirt, and the hatred and the pain had left him for good….

If only they would let him. But they did not. They were everywhere, their caring hands, their soft voices, telling him to come back, to wake up, to begin it all again….. why the hell couldn't they get it into their thick heads that he _**Didn't. Want. To**_?

"Leave me alone. Piss off. Fuck you, get your damn hands off me!"

"Doctor, he's doing it again. I can't hold him down."

"Why didn't you give him the sedative, nurse?"

Other hands, fumbling. Intruding. Obtrusive. Christ, would they finally leave him _**alone**_?

In the end, a third voice. Authoritative. Demanding. Clearly not used to getting no for an answer. The arrogant Oxford accent unbelievably annoying. "Pull yourself together, Dr. Watson. Sherlock needs you!"

The last bit rang a bell somewhere deep in John's head. This name. This name meant something to him. If he only knew what.

Perhaps not all the others were dead. Perhaps one of his comrades was still alive and needed his help? Perhaps death had not defeated Dr. Watson today after all? Grim Reaper, I'll make a fool of you yet!

John's eyes snapped open and he stared furiously at the human form looming over him. Instantly John's mind, the civilian attire notwithstanding, baptised this man 'The Commander'.

Impeccably groomed, blue eyes cold and withdrawn, with a frown somewhere between slight irritation and disgust at the display of unveiled emotion, an inevitable umbrella hanging from one arm, the vaguely familiar 'Commander' returned the stare calmly. "No more of this outrageous behaviour John. It's rude, useless and therefore intolerable, even under the circumstances. Check your temper, if you please."

The absurd disparity of this lecture in gentlemanly behaviour and the gruesome situation (what gruesome situation by the way? where was he?) left John speechless and confused.

The 'Commander' used the opportunity to send the doctor and the nurse packing with the singular blend of superciliousness, presumption and good manners brushed to impertinent perfection which, in John Watson's personal opinion, had always been the most detestable character treat of the traditional British Upper Classes.

"Anthea, I'm not to be disturbed. I'm finally making headway here."

Somewhere behind the 'Commander's' back a young woman floated towards the door, closing it behind her with discreet softness.

John wasn't surprised one bit. A man with this attitude would always have a league of willing hands at his disposal. It was just part of who and what he was.

Based on this perception, an idea formed in John's head and made it all the way down to his tongue. "Mycroft!" How the hell came he knew the man's name? "Mycroft, where's your brother?" John frowned at his own words. Brother? What brother?

Something amazing happened to the 'Commander's' (Mycroft's actually!) features. They softened. Yes, they really softened until they looked – almost – like those of a human being.

The patient winced with widened eyes when the 'Commander', unbelievably, fascinatingly, demeaned himself to take John's hand.

Unsure and very awkwardly Mycroft patted the hand before he laid it down again, most carefully. "I had hoped you could tell me." He wanted to smile but the movement got derailed under way and it left his features open. Transparent. And awfully tired.

Flushed with embarrassment John averted his eyes. He had no idea where he was or what had happened, but one thing was obvious: This wasn't a man who liked his soul being pried into.

"You see" Mycroft said "my little brother loves to land himself in the most awful of troubles sometimes. The times I found him….. in outrageous circumstances….. His taste in people and situations tends to be… a bit bizarre…"

Suddenly the blockage was crushed; the barrier John's mind had created to protect him from a recent trauma by replaying an older one vanished in an instant.

It was all there, before his mental eyes, crystal clear. The pool. The explosives. And the people. Bizarre was the word; for Oskar Dzundas and even more so for his master.

Moriarty.

James Moriarty. Jim-from-the-hospital. Oh poor, poor Molly.

"Moriarty? Who's that?"

Only from Mycroft's question Watson realized that he had said the name aloud. And he realized something else. Somehow Sherlock had done the impossible and kept the existence of a personal enemy from his brother for months.

Poor Mycroft then. Instantly John's mind degraded the man from 'Commander' to 'imbecile'. A nitwit who'd thought he'd controlled every inch of his baby brother's life and all the time keeping Moriarty from him had cost the younger Holmes nothing but an ironic smile.

But in the end it had cost Sherlock his freedom. And heaven knew what else by now.

Which meant that John Watson had no reason whatsoever to keep the secret from a man who practically _was_ MI 6.

"James Moriarty. Considers himself a Consulting Criminal. Doubtlessly he's invented the job" John said with grim humour. "You want to commit some hideous crime but you're too stupid for the job, he's your man. He's always stayed in the dark, always kept his hands clean but now you'll find him on the payroll of Bart's hospital. IT-department. Because _he_ surely _is_ your brother's arch enemy."

If Mycroft was taken aback by the sarcastic hint at their first meeting he didn't show it. "He'd hardly given his real name at Bart's, now would he."

How was it possible that John should endure this unnerving tone of absolute superiority from Sherlock so easily whilst it drove him mad coming from the elder brother? Whatever the reason, John's voice was acid when he answered.

"Moriarty sacrificed an important branch of his criminal empire, some of his most lucrative customers together with thirty million Pounds and a big share of his reputation, just to get through to Sherlock. Believe me, he _did_ give his real name. If only to demonstrate what he could get away with under _your_ very nose!"

Now John _did_ have the satisfaction of seeing the other man flinch. Surprisingly it brought him little comfort. From his former brief insight into Mycroft's soul he knew they both shared the same misery and guilt.

"Moriarty fancies himself destined to defeat your brother, Mycroft" Watson continued somewhat quieter. "And vice versa. Both get their kicks from proving how very clever they are, so defeating Sherlock – and probably you! - is the biggest kick the bastard can get in this 'verse."

Mycroft rose from his chair. It was unsettling to see him nervous enough to actually pace a few steps. "You think Moriarty crowned his great achievement by murdering my br..." he cleared his throat discreetly. "You think Sherlock is dead?"

John forced himself to face that possibility although his stomach revolted at the very thought. "No" he finally said, desperately wanting it to be more than just wishful thinking. "He went through too much trouble to get Sherlock alive. He's the typical mad child who's got everything the world has to offer."

"Once he's found the perfect toy he'll take his time with destroying it?" Mycroft completed the thought. To John's ears his voice was hatefully cool and unemotional.

"Something like that, yes." Watson had no ambition to seem uninterested when he was anything but. His voice betrayed what he felt. To think of Sherlock as a toy. A perfect human toy. A mouse with a broken spine for a cat that wanted to play the finest, the most delicious game of all.

In this moment Anthea opened the door as softly as she had closed it before. "He's correct, Sir. Jim Moriarty; got himself a job at Bart's IT-departement, befriended a woman named Molly Hooper who is..."

"An acquaintance of Sherlock's. Thank you, Anthea. Find out anything you can about him."

"We're already on it, Sir." And gone she was.

Somehow the casual exchange shorted John Watson's temper. "Mycroft, you idiot, how the hell come you don't know anything? You used to know if I slept on a couch or in Sarah's bed! How could Sherlock disappear from every fucking screen you have?"

If John hadn't known it to be impossible, he'd thought that Mycroft Holmes blushed with shame. His lids fluttered and he looked around with a hurt expression. "It grieves me to say that my little brother got the better of me this time. Besides…."

"Besides what?" John snapped. Christ almighty, there he sat, Mycroft Holmes, the all-seeing, all-knowing eyes and brain of the British Government, as clueless as a mole in a spotlight.

"Besides I knew which agent intended to lay his hands on the Bruce Patterson plans. An international mercenary of Czech origin. Naturally I knew the cases around the Hickman Gallery to be a distraction. The agent had been arrested a few minutes prior to Sherlock texting me he'd give me the stick next morning, so …. Case solved!"

"And you took a nap whilst your brother was kidnapped?" John asked incredulously.

"Of course not. I coordinated the overhaul of the foreign office's security network!"

The indignant reply unhinged John's anger and left him ….deflated. "Tell me, Mycroft, from intellectual to intellectual, do you _ever_ sleep?"

"Not much. Insomnia and liking it runs in the family."

"I should have known" John murmured, frustrated, but then his mind jumped back to the matter at hand. "So, how did you find _me_?"

Mycroft's cheeks became a shade darker. "Unfortunately it took me almost fifteen minutes before I realized that Sherlock suspected somebody else of being responsible for the abductions and the murders that served as a distraction from the missile plans. I needed additional time to deduce Sherlock's whereabouts, albeit it _had_ to be the pool in which Carl Powers had died. Obviously."

"Obviously" John muttered. There was nothing obvious about it to him. As always. God, it was enough to jump out of one's skin, such a genius and couldn't even protect his idiotic baby brother. "_Obviously_ you've found _me_ by the pool. The CCTV there. Moriarty acted in plain sight. What did you make of it?"

Mycroft's face reddened even more. "The cameras, all of them, had been disabled in advance. My best experts couldn't get anything from them. The surveillance technology there was useless. We've found you, half dead. We've found the tracks of the compact van they used to transport Sherlock, we tracked the van down in an abandoned part of an old private harbour. A boat had left this harbour the very same night to rendezvous with a French ship on the high sea. We've found a piece of Sherlock's shirt in this boat, together with a rag and a scarf that had been used to gag him, although he had been chloroformed as well as drugged with some opiate."

John's confused face made Mycroft sigh. "As a medical man you do not need me to explain the usefulness of genetic research in forensics. Sherlock's shirt was …. soiled. He's never stomached chloroform very well and his saliva..."

"I'm getting the idea, thanks" John said hastily, aghast. Another thought struck him. "Christ, how long have I been out of it?"

"Ten days. And even so I had to throw my weight around to get this little interview with you."

"Are you telling me you and the complete machine of all the MIs, CIs, SYs and all the other high an' mighty initials that live on tax payer's money haven't been able to find one kidnapped man in over a week, although he kidnapper was kind enough to leave his _card_?"

"Must I remind you that you've told me his identity only now? Doubtlessly the evidence I mentioned has been placed. To mislead us..."

"Damn it, Mycroft, _**Where. Is. Your. Brother**_?"

John Watson's heart was in his throat when Mycroft Holmes just shrugged and looked at him. "You are my last hope, John. If you can't remember anything, if you haven't heard any slip of the tongue – I'm at a loss. We all are."

John swallowed. Hard. This couldn't happen. This was impossible. Unthinkable. Dozens of experts, technology worth millions of Pounds, contacts from here to the end of the world and back again were at this man's disposal and he needed a _slip of the tongue_?

"Moriarty doesn't make that kind of mistakes" Watson said. "I'm sorry."

And he was. More sorry than he'd ever been in his life. _Ten_ days. 240 god-damned, fucking hours at the mercy of a complete psycho. He couldn't begin to imagine what Sherlock was going through. How he would feel. Only that it had to be way, _way_ beyond 'sorry'.

"John, please... if you feel up to it... maybe if we go over it together, if you tell me exactly what happened to you and my brother during that night..."

To hear Mycroft beg somehow made things worse. Much worse. In one word, hopeless.

And hopeless was unacceptable.

Therefore John Watson threw himself into the process of reporting, hoping against all odds that they'd come up with something. Over and over again he repeated what he had seen and heard during that night. With Mycroft, with Mycroft's best interrogators, with some prize-winning psychiatrists, even with the help of some special drugs.

But it all came to nothing.

The van, the harbour, the boat and the ship – dead ends.

Moriarty himself – vanished without a trace. Janus Cars, Hickman Gallery – nothing.

The most dead end of all was John Watson himself.

At least that was how he felt. Finished. Useless. Defeated. Dead.

In other words - he felt exactly as he had felt when he had first come back from Helmand to London. Before he had met Sherlock Holmes. Before he had found what to him had looked like a way back into life.

12 Months after the 'pool incident', as it was called, the investigation – the search – was officially abandoned, the case closed.

Mycroft Holmes withdrew 'to the country', address unknown, according to Anthea.

Mrs Hudson gave her remaining lodger a wide berth for somewhat longer before she reluctantly mentioned the future.

The very same day John packed his few belongings. Sherlock's stuff was no longer a concern. Some weeks earlier John had come home and his flatmate's belongings had been gone. According to Mrs. Hudson 'this dreadful man with the umbrella' had come and taken it all away.

John Watson was lucky to once more get his old room at the cheap hostel where he had first stayed after the homecoming that had been a return to an alien world and nothing else.

The nightmares came back. Night after night he saw his platoon die and more and more often a new face was among the corpses, a face that had not been there before.

The days John spent behind closed curtains, dreading the next night.

He lost a threatening amount of weight and didn't even notice. His muscles withered away from sitting around too much and he didn't care.

Someone had depended on him, relied on him. Again. Had trusted him with his life. Again. And he had failed that someone. Again. This someone was lost whilst John Watson had survived. Again.

The difference was, John Watson wouldn't try again. Wouldn't rise again. Not this time.

This time, John Watson would just curl up in a dark corner like the wounded animal he was, and die too.

It was in that room, in that state, that Sarah found him.

And she decided that she would bring him out of that shell of sadness and self-accusations even if it was the last thing she'd ever do.


	4. Delayed delivery

**4. Delayed delivery**

John stared at his laptop.

His hands were sweaty. What the hell was he doing here? And with this item from his nightmares.

Just once Mycroft had suggested including the computer in the investigation, but after John's reaction he had not mentioned it again.

Naturally the elder Holmes had always, and most haughtily, considered free access to Sherlock's accounts, e-mails and private papers an elder brother's in-bred privilege. But there had been a kind of silent understanding between Mycroft Holmes and John Watson that, while the doctor's movements and whereabouts were closely monitored, his communication and papers were not.

So doing some research in the blog had been self-evident to Mycroft. He had looked for some hints at Moriarty in 'A Study in Pink' and the other stories. It had been done discreetly, behind John's back but – a very big and generous 'but' under the circumstances - as an external user only.

John himself had not accessed his own account either. Since the night at the pool the very thought of looking at his website, at his blog had caused nausea and the irrefutable wish to destroy something. Or someone. Preferably himself, as Moriarty was unavailable.

So, for the whole 18 months since Sherlock's abduction, neither laptop nor account had been touched.

Touching it now was like violating a grave.

"Do you want me to take that away, love?" A furtive hand on John's shoulder. Worried. Affectionate. But not knowing what to do.

"No Mrs. Hudson, thank you. He has to deal with that on his own. Thank you."

Trust Sarah to be extremely polite in extreme situations. Like the man she loved sitting on a casket of nitro-glycerine. Or much rather, this man _was_ a casket of nitro-glycerine. That was much more accurate.

"If you say so..." The landlady clearly wasn't convinced.

"Yes, I _do_ say so, Mrs. Hudson. John's therapist was adamant that deleting the blog, the whole account and website is of the utmost importance. And we should do it in here, in their old flat."

"_I wish she wouldn't tell everyone what my new therapist said_" John thought. "_Sometimes I wish she'd go away and never come back_." He felt horrible as he thought that. He loved Sarah. By now he was sure he did. He loved her more than he'd loved any other woman before her. It wasn't her fault that it was so very hard. Difficult. Difficult to love someone when one wished to be dead. Dead and beyond one's memories.

"Well, if you say so dear..." Mrs. Hudson repeated and reluctantly, very reluctantly, she left them alone.

"John, you have to do it now. Please. We agreed on doing it today. Time to move on, remember? You delete your site, we buy a new laptop and you start a new site and blog. We wanted our wedding photos to be the first thing published, remember?"

Their wedding, yes. Two months from now he'd be a married man.

God almighty!

Her lips on his neck, her hands on his chest. Her perfume. The very special scent of _her_ underneath. And yet he sensed something else, too. Despair. A fervent hope, strong, but not indefatigable. Not invincible. A last try. No guarantee of success, just hope. And he sensed fear. Of disappointment. Of losing him.

He couldn't let her down. She had done too much for him, sacrificed too much for him. He was an asshole, but not big enough an asshole to let her down.

With a resolve that was completely faked he opened his laptop, drew a sharp breath and started the booting procedure. How peculiar that he still remembered his password. But then, that was why he had chosen 'Rachel' in the first place. Because it was the one word unconnected to him and yet impossible to forget. For someone notoriously forgetful when it came to passwords - irresistible. At least until Sherlock had pointed out that, as the password was mentioned in 'A Study in Pink', 'unconnected' wasn't quite true, and...

"_Don't think about it, John. No use dwelling on the past. You have to look forward, to go on with your life_." God, he hated his psychologist, the man was arrogant, with an unbearably patronising attitude…...

"John?" Sarah said softly. "This is the account. You must delete it. Please. For us, darling. Please."

John's eyes wandered over the page in front of him. Without really knowing it he scrolled. Up. And down. "_Sherlock is unbelievably ignorant of other things. He doesn't even know that the earth moves around the sun..._"

"John, please delete it. He's gone, he won't come back..."

He was no longer listening. In the upper left corner the page informed him about something. "_You have mail". _Someone had sent him a voice mail. Obviously ages ago and he had never listened to it. Odd that his mobile hadn't informed him earlier. Oh yes, he had lost his old mobile. Or rather it had been taken from him. To be precise, Moriarty's men had taken it from him before they had forced the explosives around his neck and chest. Before they had...

As if drawn by a magical string John leaned closer to the laptop's screen. Closer to the small messenger in the upper left corner. The date, it would display the date of the message.

A minute later a voice he'd been sure never to hear again came from the laptop's speakers. "_Dear Watson..._"

Another five minutes later Watson was hanging on the phone, turning first Lestrade's then the other Yard people's world upside down.

Mycroft's arrival at 221 B Baker Street was so very unobtrusive among all the shouting, the excited questions that it went almost unnoticed. It gave him time to whisper some discreet remarks to Sarah before he called her a cab.

Even for Sherlock's remote, sociopathic brother it was painful to see her face when she left without John Watson hearing or seeing it.

"There's a sound, Sir, besides your brother's voice. Some machine…" Lestrade narrowed his eyes in concentration while they replayed and replayed the message again and again, until Sherlock's words no longer made sense, until it was all an agglomeration of sounds.

Mycroft waited, apparently with undiminished patience and calm, for the arrival of his experts who would analyse these sounds and find out anything that could be found.

Yet behind the complacent façade the elder Holmes had an uncomfortable pressure on his chest. The awkward tone of the message, the stiff and formal words, shuffled together laboriously, the pauses between them – he knew his little brother, knew him by heart and the unnatural manner of speaking told him more about Sherlock's situation in the moment of the recording than he had wanted to know.

Little brother, so eager to prove himself. No tree too high, no sword too sharp, no task too difficult, no challenge too big; reckless, brazen, cantankerous Sherlock who'd rather die than back off – he had been scared when that message had been recorded. Scared, tired and defeated, albeit he had clearly been fighting to keep his dignity intact. It had always meant so very much to him.

This wasn't a simple message; this was a veritable farewell note. And for a fleeting moment, just for the time a butterfly would need to move its wings, Mycroft allowed himself to be jealous of the man who had been chosen for this farewell. He would have given much had Sherlock sent these words to _him_.

And yet, the elder brother silently berated himself, he should have known that this was an impossible dream.

"_Dr. Watson will either be the making of my brother or he'll make him even worse_." Remembering his former prognosis, Mycroft mused that doubtlessly the doctor had been a much more stabilizing influence than he would have given him credit for. But now, looking at the man's flushed, excited, hopeful face, the elder Holmes wondered, for the first time ever, if Sherlock Holmes had been the making or the undoing of John Watson.

"That's a helicopter" Watson shouted suddenly. "A helicopter, I swear it. God, I've heard the damn things coming often enough!"

Mycroft frowned, intrigued. This would solve a few puzzles; the boat, the ship, they had been ruses of course but somehow they _had_ brought his brother out of the country….

Later his experts, after having troubled every single piece of technology they had found in their toy boxes, confirmed that the sound that accompanied Sherlock's words stemmed from a Squirrel HT1 Helicopter.

From there it was a piece of cake.

In no time at all Mycroft had the personal file of the man who had piloted the 670 AAC squadron's helicopter from Hampshire to London that night. The necessary documents of the training flight were attached.

Colonel Sebastian Moran, once a Group Captain of the RAF, now an instructor at Middle Wallop had been in command.

The 670 Squadron AAC's CO was flabbergasted when some taciturn men of dubious origin but equipped with all the foofaraw of a Secret Command Order showed up and turned everything upside down.

They reported back to Mycroft.

An hour or two after Moran's return an ambulance had left the base at Middle Wallop. Official destination: Frimley Park Hospital, near Aldershot. The patient had been, according to the papers, a 35 year old civilian worker from one of the base's workshops who had suffered an accident at work, leading to a severe concussion and possible brain damage. He had been accompanied by an equally dark-haired medic of roughly the same age.

The ambulance had reached Frimley's belatedly, due to a traffic jam, or so the driver had told the hospital staff.

Nobody had made much of it. Nonetheless there had been many jokes at the expense of the medical personnel at Middle Wallop Army Base who obviously needed the support of a fully equipped hospital to treat a nasty case of the flu. "Pneumonia my arse" Frimley's chief nurse said when questioned. "I know a guy who wants to have a few days off on his employers' expense when I see one. Gave him a few pills and send him packin' that's what we did."

Nobody at Frimley's had heard or seen a man with a potentially broken scull. Or a dark-haired medic.

Mycroft found out that the ambulance had made a secret detour to a rendezvous point near Aldershot and from there - thank heaven for elderly people who suffer from insomnia and insatiable curiosity at the same time – another van had taken Sherlock to a decommissioned part of Farnborough Airport in Rushmoor.

A plane had left Farnborough somewhat later, headed for the continent. A destination in France where it had never arrived.

"The whole operation must have cost a King's ransom" Mycroft said to Watson during one of their now frequent meetings. John had insisted on having them and Holmes had not been very averse.

Secretly Mycroft admitted, if only to himself, that he liked being together with the probably one and only real friend Sherlock had had in his life.

Once the jealousy had left, the elder Holmes noticed that he felt closer to his brother when he was with the former army surgeon, which was why he had decided to introduce Dr. John Watson, under all normal circumstances a human existence far too humble to ever lift his eyes to an institution as august as the Diogene's Club, to this same Club's restaurant.

Watson was blissfully oblivious to the waiters' eyes and whispers; he admired the surroundings of one of London's most classy locations but wasn't in the least intimidated. Not even impressed. Both Mycroft and the Maitre de Maison noticed it and the pained expression on the typically supercilious butler-face gave the older Holmes a vicious kind of satisfaction.

As a result, John was generously graced with what in Mycroft's opinion was an extremely amiable conversation. "Imagine that, to infiltrate an Army Base, to march out with Sherlock in plain sight on a stretcher, to hire a plane and pilot who flies under the radar level between England and France, of all places… bold as brass. Such an extravagance, just to get his hands on one man."

John didn't want to listen to Mycroft complimenting the psycho. "I already told you, for Moriarty Sherlock isn't just 'a man', he's special. The bastard gave up considerable parts of his big business for this, even before that plane left Britain. By the way, has it been found?"

"A matter of time" Mycroft replied with his usual serenity that, also as usual, drove Watson mad. "Another glass of the Chablis? It's really superb."

"Damn your Chablis, we have to find the plane! And Moran. You said the Army has seen neither hair nor hide of him since you've got his personal file. You said someone must have warned him."

"_We_ have to find them?" Mycroft said with a cocked brow. "Did I miss something? Have you signed up with MI 6 since we last spoke?"

"Christ almighty, he's your little brother, Mycroft and it has been almost twenty months now. Doesn't he haunt your dreams? Oh, forgive me, I forgot, you don't sleep." John's voice faded away together with his sarcasm and he shook his head violently. "I keep thinking, what if he's…."

"If he's dead he's also beyond all earthly pain and peril" Mycroft replied calmly. "If he's alive, he's in dire need of our help. Tell me, how exactly does shouting at me and jumping to wild, unfounded conclusions help?"

Watson stared at the other man, disbelievingly. "Do you _wish_ Sherlock was dead?"

"What we wish is not important John, it's high time you get that into your head. If we can't find Moriarty, we will find Colonel Moran and from there a trace will finally lead to the great mastermind himself. If we rush things, if we go head over heels we might miss some most important clues. That was Sherlock's mistake, remember. He brought this unto himself because he rushed into things, taking it for granted that Moriarty was after the Bruce Patterson plans."

"He did _not_ bring that unto himself. This psychopathic maniac just dragged him away whilst he was on a case _you_ had forced on him."

Mycroft froze with indignity as he found himself in the eye of a whirlwind of flying plates, glasses and cutlery Watson had caused when he had jumped to his feet and crashed his fist on the table while roaring at his counterpart. The shocked attention of each and everyone in the restaurant, renowned for its tranquillity, genteel elegance and very exclusive choice of guests, was even harder to endure for a man whose life bloomed only in the secret mists and obscure shadows of mystery.

But, being Mycroft, the elder Holmes knew the perfect countermove. Coyly he dabbed his lips with the napkin; an almost invisible gesture and the furious waiter backed off. "I suggest we call it a day, John. It is obvious that you are a bit upset. Give Sarah my regards."

As always his presumptuously perfect manners disarmed Watson thoroughly. Mycroft had all the time in the world to wrap himself in his coat and scarf before he turned back to the surgeon with a soft smile. "In my opinion you should see her more often. She always calms you down. A good woman should do that for a man, or so I'm told."

Umbrella in one hand, his brief case in the other – because for once he'd come without the inevitable Anthea in his wake – Mycroft nodded a friendly farewell to Watson. "I'll phone you as soon as I know more about the plane or our army friend."

John just stood there a minute longer, embarrassed and crestfallen. When he inquired after the damage he was told that 'Mr. Mycroft' had paid the bill – in full. "With his platinum card" the Maitre de Maison added with a vengeance.

Absurdly Watson thought that that at least solved the mystery of how Sherlock had paid his rent and bills although he'd never got any money from Lestrade and only infrequently from other clients. It also explained Mycroft's ominous remark on 'ordering' Sherlock to investigate the theft of the Bruce Patterson plans. If big brother paid little brother's bills he might well order the younger one about.

But then, at that time Sherlock had still been in the possession of the considerable pay check he had been given for finding the holes in the bank's security system.

Watson wiped his eyes angrily. "Thanks" he said to the Maitre while he grabbed his own jacket. Then a thought struck him. "I'm not a member of your club…." he said.

"I'm very well aware of that, Sir!" The Maitre's politeness resembled that of a cast-iron mace. "However, there's a _book_-club down the road, it has stocked handbooks of manners in abundance."

"….but if I wanted to visit your premises again" an unruffled Watson continued "say, with a Lady friend, how…."

"I wouldn't advise it, Sir!" the Maitre said, dignified but with unmistakable resolve to protect the Club from looting, pillaging or any other form of barbarism. "Have a good day, Sir!" He opened the door and he didn't budge until he could be sure that the vulgar vandal had left Diogene's sacred site for good.

Belatedly it dawned on the doctor that he hadn't made a friend of the man.

Well, who gave a shit. Small wonder Sherlock had always given his brother's usual watering holes a wide berth.

For many an hour John wandered around the streets of London, aimlessly.

In the end, weary and with hurting feet, he looked up and found himself in front of Sarah's door.

He hadn't visited her in a horribly, indeed _disgustingly_ long time. A few phone calls. One or two letters. Not one word about their wedding. The whole idea had died of silence and mental starvation somehow.

He really _was_ an asshole.

Irresolutely he shifted from one foot to the other. Should he? Should he not?

Like an answer to his unspoken questions the door opened and revealed her body, a dark silhouette against the brilliant light in the corridor behind her. "Come in. You're freezing."

"How did you know it was me?"

"Mycroft phoned me. He said you might come eventually. He also said you had nowhere else to go."

"That's not very flattering for you, is it" John said in a rare moment of empathy. "To know I come only because I can't go anywhere else."

"It's enough. For now, it's enough."

He nodded and when she turned back in he trotted after her like a worn-out stray cat, glad to find a warm spot behind an oven for the night.

She steered him through a hot bath, a flannel pyjama and a sandwich before he ended up in her bed – and in her arms.

"I'm a selfish idiot" he told her. "I don't know how you can bear with me."

"You'd be much easier to bear if you _were_ selfish. An egoist would not be broken by losing a man he'd hardly known."

"He was my friend" John replied, a bit defiantly even though he felt obliged to spare her feelings. Fervently he corrected himself. "He _is_ my friend."

She stiffened and although he couldn't make out her features in the dark he knew that she was about to cry. Somehow this angered him even more. He had to convince her that all would be well. "They know which plane Moriarty used to take Sherlock out of the country and they know who helped the psycho. This will be over soon!"

"It _is_ over, John."

Watson rose until he sat on the bed, staring at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Mycroft told me" she said, so very softly he barely heard her. "They were waiting for him in his office, after lunch. They've found Moran. A holiday flat some place in France, rented under a false name. He's blown his own head off when they tried to arrest him. On his computer was a report of what happened twenty months ago. The pilot escaped alive when the plane crashed somewhere in the Atlantic but Sherlock was in the back, unconscious, tied up. He's dead, John. Sherlock is dead."

She paused. Waited. Surely John would say something, ask something. But he didn't.

So she went on. "Moran still had Sherlock's mobile. Dismantled, or Mycroft's men would have located the thing months ago."

"What about Moriarty?" Watson finally muttered.

"He must have travelled by other means. Moran had mailed him the report about the plane crash during an impromptu trip to France, a week after the accident. They're trying to track Moriarty down by using this e-mail contact but Mycroft wasn't very hopeful, not after so much time. "

Abruptly John rose and left the bed. She heard him going to the living room. He switched on the light, curled up on the sofa and then - silence. Nothing. No screaming, no crying, nothing. Just silence.

"I love you, John Watson" Sarah whispered in the dark. "I love you!"

"_Love should be wonderful_" she thought bitterly. But there was nothing gorgeous in her feelings.

Just misery.

And yet it was in her flat that Mycroft found his brother's friend to inform him that a few days ago Sherlock Holmes had officially been declared dead, based on the evidence found with Moran. There had been a private memorial service. Family only.

"Thanks" John said sarcastically. "For not inviting me."

Holmes ignored the jibe and completed his debriefing. For that was what he did. A debriefing. There was no trace of Moriarty. As if the earth had opened and swallowed him up, lock stock and barrel.

In the end Mycroft handed over John's old laptop and suddenly there was passion in his voice. "Take my advice" he said. "Fire your new psychologist. Keep the damn thing."

He was almost out of the door when John heard him mumble something else. Something like "my brother deserves to be remembered."

John ran after him. "Mycroft, what if it's another ruse. What if the plane never crashed. Another lie, another deception..."

Holmes turned and Watson fell silent. There was no talking to a face like this. In 20 months Mycroft had aged a decade. "Two years, John. You knew my brother. Sherlock would have found a way to let me know that he's alive."

"There are many ways to keep a man in check" Watson insisted. "_And I've seen a lot of them_" he'd loved to add, had he not known that it meant carrying coals to Newcastle.

Mycroft sighed. "Moriarty is resourceful but he doesn't own Guantanamo. If he did, I'd be the first to know. The plane crashed, John. Sherlock drowned, hopefully in his sleep. Case closed." He adjusted his umbrella before he bowed his head slightly. "A good day to you, doctor."

All day long Sarah circled the desk with the laptop like a lioness would circle a hyena that came too close to her cub.

Therefore John waited until she was asleep before he booted the computer and accessed his site. Why he should do this was a mystery, even to him.

Finally, on a mere hunch, he visited Sherlock's site. "The Science of Deduction". He grinned sadly when he found the link to the chat-room Sherlock had installed although he had rambled on and on about the chat-room being one of John's more stupid ideas.

As a consequence it had mostly been Watson who used it; to some of the chatters' confound disappointment when they found out that it was the author of 'A Study in Pink' and 'The Blind Banker' they were chatting with, not the protagonist.

"_Knock, knock_"

What the hell?

Again the site told the only other user online that someone wanted to chat with him. "_Knock, knock._" Neolithic chatting. Writing only. No video. No audio.

"Who are you?" John wrote back, almost without thinking.

"_Who do you think I am_?"

"Who are you?"

"_Do you still miss him? I do._"

"What the fuck do you mean?"

"_I had such great plans for Sherlock and me. You must admit, he was much better off with me than he was with you. At least we were equals! Like twin brothers._"

Watson's hands were ice-cold all of a sudden. "Moriarty?"

"_Call me Jim, please. Isn't it horrible to think of him down there, on the bottom of the sea. All alone._"

For a while nothing happened. Watson felt like butcher's beef, frozen solid.

"_Johnny-boy, are you still with us?_"

"It is true then. Sherlock is dead!"

"_Would I give you a ring if he wasn't? I'm not in the habit of talking to pets_._ Good thing you weren't at the memorial service. I found Mycroft's tie somewhat dull._"

"You were there?"

"_Why do people always overlook the gravediggers?_ _Even when everybody knows there is no grave to dig_. _Which reminds me_."

"Reminds you of what?"

"_Reminds me of why I came. I still have a grave to dig. Good bye, little doggy. Find yourself a new master_."

John never stood a chance against the virus that destroyed Sherlock's site beyond recovery, as well as the laptop's software. After all, 'Jim-from-the-hospital' _was_ an IT-expert.

Fleetingly the doctor considered informing Mycroft. But in the end, he did not. Instead he wrapped up the useless laptop carefully and stowed it away underneath some leftovers from his childhood and an old, ugly, impossibly miscoloured sweater his sister had once given him as a birthday present.

Then he went to bed.

"What have you been doing?" Sarah asked sleepily.

"Thinking."

"Any final results?"

"Yes. That you were right. It's over."

Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, the solid armour around his inner being melted and he could finally, blessedly do what had been so very easy during his nightmares and so utterly impossible during his waking hours.

He cried until he had no tears left.

Sarah held him and thought that she'd finally got a second chance.


	5. It's Christmas

**5****. It's Christmas**

Shivering in the ice-cold wind of a bleak day in late December Sarah turned up the collar of her coat and hurried towards the tube's entrance.

The usual jostle of excited advent-time tourists (why could foreigners never learn to queue up properly?), the usual sticky air and wet-dog smell of a tube well packed in winter time, a technical breakdown in bus service; a bad-tempered cabby and Sarah had at last made it to their new home. "John, I'm back" she shouted merrily as soon as she was through the door "guess what I found for our Christmas dinner…"

She was freezing, overworked and under-slept – the latter due to the worries that came with ferociously, outrageously throwing all their savings and a little inheritance from an old aunt into one preciously small account and using it to buy lodgings in a part of London they couldn't really afford – oh, to hell with it.

In one word: Sarah was thoroughly pissed. Yet she was hell-bent on not showing it.

This was going to be her first Christmas as a married woman, Mrs John Watson, to be precise; they had bought a house in Notting Hill (well, nothing grand except for the price), they had sold their car – _her_ car actually – as a last resort to gather the necessary cash for the first instalment and they had tired out all their acting talents pretending to that banker that they were a pair of glitzy down-town doctors who could earn as much money as they wanted at every posh private clinic in England whenever they chose to.

This would be the greatest Christmas in the history of man and if it was the last thing she'd ever do on this earth!

"John, darling…." she started again whilst entering the living room and let the bag in her hand fall down with a short yelp.

"I _do_ apologize, dear Sarah. Naturally I should've phoned but I'm in such a rush…"

"_Mycroft_!" Sarah grabbed her throat. "You gave me 12 years' worth of loss, terrifying me like that."

Holmes looked suitably crestfallen. "I'm so sorry. I had hoped to find your husband in, but apparently….."

"It would be the very first time in three years that you do not know _exactly_ where John is" Sarah snorted angrily. "Don't deny it. I know you and your men are constantly spying on us."

It was true enough. And Holmes had no intention of ending it. At least not as long as Moriarty was still out there, somewhere. Who knew when Jim-from-the-hospital would feel bored again and remember his old 'friends'?

Mycroft Holmes had a keen sense of obligations and the duty to take care of John Watson and all related to him he thought to have inherited from his dead brother.

So he gave a little embarrassed cough and decided to let the matter rest.

Alas, Sarah was in no mood to do the same. Especially not as the precious, unreasonably expensive bottle of champagne she had bought had not survived the fall to the floor. "Damn it, Mycroft, what do you want? It's as if you never believed that your brother is dead. As if you believed by sticking to _my_ husband, you could stick to Sherlock, too."

"Actually I came to deliver my Christmas present," Holmes replied; brazenly ignoring her attempt at Freudian psychoanalysis of his motives for keeping a very close eye on John Watson

"Your _what_?"

"Originally I wanted to give it to John but then I thought….." he gave up the pretence of not having known in advance that her husband was absent.

Puzzled, Sarah took the elegant envelope with the engraved sign on it, addressed to 'Mr and Mrs John Watson'. She almost dropped it when she suddenly felt that he had taken her other hand. "Please, Sarah, I know your life hasn't been made easier by me or my brother. Allow me to make it up to you as best as possible. John is such a lucky man to have found you and I wish you all the best."

As always he was gone before she had really sorted her thoughts and knew what to say and she stood there, upset but touched somehow in spite of it and turned the envelope in her hands irresolutely.

Should she open it? Or was that improper? It was addressed to them both but if she knew one thing than it was that Mycroft did everything on purpose. Every step he took was precisely planned and thought through. So, if he gave this to her in John's absence….

"Oh, to hell with it" she muttered again, went to the desk, took a paper knife and opened the envelope.

The first thing she saw was a short letter from Mycroft. "_Dear Sarah_!" She grinned. He'd known she'd open the envelope alone. "_Please do not be angry with me for this. I owe you so much more for making both your lives a profound misery at times. I ask you to not regard this as an act of charity, for it is nothing of the kind. This is merely a small part of what my brother would've been entitled to, hadn't I used my rule over the family fortune to bully him on occasions. Yours sincerely. Mycroft."_ There was a post scriptum. "_I'd keep this to myself if I were you. One reason for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson being friends against all odds was that they both were stiff-necked rascals with more stubborn pride than common sense."_

Extremely curious by now she opened the second document, looked at it and slumped down on the couch. This was a banker's document. And it said that the chokingly high mortgage on the house had been paid off in full and that the property was legally…John Watson's.

Made sense, she supposed, if in a weird way. Sherlock hadn't liked her much. And Mycroft was acting on behalf of his brother here; that much was obvious. So it had to be John.

For a moment she thought of stuffing the papers back into the envelope and having them returned to sender, this instance. If Mycroft thought he'd buy her consent to forcing himself into their lives – but then she thought of what this meant for John.

Somewhere along the way – especially since Sherlock was gone - her husband had developed strange, romantic notions of what it meant to be a doctor, 'a healer of people' as he had once put it and therefore he had been in seventh heaven – or in what accounted for him as such – when he'd got a full time job with NHS. Bad money but no patients suffering from boredom, hypochondria or the wrong idea of expensive recreation. At least that was how John saw it, in spite of all the junkies that NHS hospitals in London frequently got.

Slowly, carefully Sarah filed the bank document away in one of her folders – John never troubled himself with any tax or other administrative paper work if he could help it.

Subsequently she pulled another letter from her own pocket, the letter she had thought to celebrate together with John and that bottle of champagne. She tore it and threw the shreds into the dustbin.

BMI Weymouth hospital's offer to take on her and John had been _her _idea of a Christmas present. Naturally, a job in one of the most exclusive hospitals in the UK couldn't compete with Mycroft's gift.

As always, _she_ couldn't compete with what Mycroft had to offer.

But then, she'd never been able to outdo Sherlock in John's affection either. She knew that.

"Merry Christmas, John" Sarah muttered to herself.

She looked around her; at the lodgings she had decorated and furnished with so much care and love. Their little nest, their home.

For many a week she had feared the house would be their undoing, that they had badly overreached their financial capacity.

The financial pressure had been a nightmare.

Why wasn't she glad, then? Why the hell wasn't she happy?

Perhaps because it had never been really hers from the start. Nothing of or about John Watson would ever really be hers. The wedding hadn't changed that. The house hadn't changed that. Nothing ever would.

A spirit haunted the premises, the spirit of a dark-haired man, an arrogant, supercilious brat but brilliant at the same time and when he came, Sarah knew she'd no longer a place in her own house.

Now, with a little help from his brother, the spirit had once more risen from his grave and actually _bought_ the damn place, so that he might haunt it to all eternity.

For a while Sarah busied herself with tidying up.

Then she poured herself a huge Scotch.

And finally she curled up on the couch and started crying.

Meanwhile her husband was in the best of moods, light years away from any morbid thought.

No spirits from the past haunted him today, no fears of the future either. In a very jovial mood, John Watson was out shopping for gifts.

For Harry he'd already bought a special fountain pen, one she'd surely like and one that couldn't be operated with something drinkable.

A present for Sarah – well, that was another cup of tea entirely.

He was just harassing the third jeweller in a row for something that was at the same time special, luxurious, elegant and affordable when another customer entered the shop.

The elderly, fragile looking man walked with a slight stoop and was obviously very short sighted as he wore voluminous, old-fashioned spectacles with virtual bricks for glasses. The clothes, however, though also very conservative, looked extremely expensive, hand tailored.

Unlike John he was very bad tempered and started whining and complaining the moment his foot touched the premises' ground. "Is nobody here? I'm not as young as you, I don't have all day. A necklace I want, for my niece. Rubies – or no, pearls. Or emeralds. Or maybe sapphires. Hurry up, lad, don't stand there gawking."

"Excuse me, Sir…" John tried to intervene, as he had been in the shop first.

"What? What? Speak up, young man. I'm not as young as I once was."

"I'm not yet done here, Sir" John said louder.

"Who gives a damn? I say, you're a monkey with a tin tool, to treat an old man like that. Step aside!" and he tried to push his way to the counter where the confused assistant was racking his brain for a peaceful solution.

John, however, was determined to stand his ground. "I'm sorry Sir, but you'll have to wait 'til I've finished my business."

"You're a rogue, Sir, a rogue and a villain" the other man replied with the same peculiar mixture of ill-bred insolence and over-educated, professorial, old-fashioned choice of language. "But I've no notion of wasting my time on a bad-mannered brat from the slums. This shop has lost a very valuable customer today, if I say so myself!"

Speechless, John and the assistant stared at his back when he left. "Can you believe this guy?" Watson asked, still dumbfounded.

"I'm sure he's never shopped with us before" the assistant answered, shaking his head. "And I wish he'd never do so in the future." Then he remembered that another tiresome customer was standing in front of the counter. "The necklace I showed you, Sir. Isn't it appealing?"

"Yes, very" Watson said, gulping down his spontaneous reaction "_the price is even more appalling_." Instead he smiled conciliatory. To hell with financial prudence, this was his first Christmas as a married man. In the very last second he thought of his two left thumbs that vanished only when he treated a patient. "I take it. Could you wrap it for me please?"

"That's five Pounds for the gift wrap, Sir."

"You mean I've just bought a necklace for 600 Pounds quit and I've to pay five extra Pounds for you wrapping it up in some gift wrapper that sports the advertisement of your firm?"

"Naturally, if you prefer some cheap paper you could always visit the One-Pound-Store, just round the corner."

John felt his cheeks burn, if in sudden anger or in embarrassment he did not know. So he took his refuge with subtle irony. "The neighbourhood has declined somewhat then?"

Obviously the irony was _too _subtle for the assistant. "Indeed it has, Sir. Shall I wrap the necklace, Sir?"

"Please do" John Watson admitted unconditional surrender and a few minutes later he left the shop, poorer in money but richer in experience than he had been before.

He wasn't good at quarrelling with supercilious people, regardless of them being club butlers or jeweller's assistants.

The heck with it. Sarah would adore the necklace. And she deserved it. Nothing else mattered.

John was still deep in thoughts as he rounded the corner, when suddenly somebody ran into him. "What the…." But he stopped himself in mid-sentence. A muzzle pressing into his spine was nothing that could be dealt with by a few harsh words. Nor were the by now three men that surrounded him.

A minute later he found himself inside a car between two of the ruffians, opposite to the elderly man he'd met at the jeweller's shop.

Before John had any chance to voice his opinion on the abduction, said gentleman bowed his head, took it in both hands and tugged and pulled violently for a moment.

Finally he looked up again and Watson's mouth turned dry.

The face in front of him was now that of a much younger man. Indeed that of a most familiar young man. A man who now spoke in an also very familiar voice. "Surprise, surprise. Sorry for the jostle earlier; I just had to make sure it was really you."

The doctor just stared at his captor who silently appreciated him from the back seat of the Rolls Royce Phantom.

Suddenly John darted upwards. Out, he wanted out of here, and he didn't care if he'd smash his head on the road when falling out of the speeding vehicle.

But he never made it.

The other man had no need to give any orders, his companions knew exactly what to do.

When the drug took effect, the doctor's eyes rolled back in his head and closed. The other man smiled and tut-tutted sarcastically before he nodded his approval at his henchmen.

"It shouldn't take our friend Mycroft long to find out all there is to find about the honourable Ronald Midair. Not when the doctor has last been seen in Mr. Midair's car, don't you think?" the disguised gentleman said to nobody in particular, looking very pleased with himself.

His helpmates, knowing his unpredictable temper, thought it wiser to just nod approvingly, which made their master think better of talking to them.

Instead he looked at John's still form and let his thoughts flow freely, but silently. Yes, doubtlessly Mycroft would investigate this abduction with a vengeance; and he would find all the little clues and hints that had been spread with so much so meticulous care and diligence, here and there, about the Mr. Ronald Midair. Yes, it had cost precious time, and a fortune, but it was worth it.

And once Mycroft _had_ found out about Mr. Midair... "Oh Sherlock, why couldn't you just accept that we were born for each other" the man muttered under his breath.

He looked at the seasonal decorations and shops that they passed by and remembered. An expression of extreme joy came to his features. "My God, it's Christmas" he said and, still smiling, if a bit sadly in the grip of his memories, James Moriarty leaned back into his comfortable seat and enjoyed the ride.


	6. Kensington Gardens

**6****. Kensington Gardens**

Anthea couldn't stand it any longer. Nothing on her smart phone, nothing on her laptop. Where was he? Her fingers ached from _not_ pressing any spots on a touch screen which could only mean one thing – she hadn't heard from her boss for at least half an hour.

Damn it, this couldn't go on. It was inefficient. Unprofessional. If not outright unnatural for this man to indulge in personal grief like that and she would tell him so, right away.

With resolute strides she walked down the corridor, took a deep breath, knocked and walked in. "Sir, I do not think this is very…" she said to an abandoned chair. Behind an abandoned desk. In an abandoned room.

Two minutes later an awful lot of people were on red alert. Offices suddenly buzzed with frantic men and women. Meetings were cancelled and lunch breaks were cut short.

The whole well tuned apparatus was seriously disturbed because the intricate web was one spider short – the main spider.

Actually, that _was_ his code name. The Big Spider. Or, as his staff preferred to shorten it – Tarantula.

It was just as well that he himself didn't know that, as he had no sense at all for romanticisms about what most people called 'spying' and what he called the intelligence business.

Whilst the British Security network trembled from nervous activity, the tarantula in question was walking down Oxford Street. His absent-minded gaze wandered over the goods exhibited in the shop windows without seeing them. He had had high hopes that this impromptu walk would calm his nerves a bit but – no chance.

For a man who wasn't accustomed to _having_ nerves this was an extremely unpleasant experience, as well as an additionally disquieting one.

The moment in which the tarantula caught himself gnawing his impeccably manicured fingernails – and in public – he decided that he needed a counteragent against his nervousness and that he needed it _now_.

He walked into the next best shop which looked suitable – if there was something like a shop suitable for gentlemen these days in Oxford Street – answered the waitress' various questions with "yes" as this usually shortened discussions with ordinary people, and took a seat by the window with a big mug full of steaming hot beverage.

He took the first sip, cautiously, _very_ cautiously – but not cautiously enough.

The elderly man at the table left of him looked rather irritated when he had to watch his neighbour spitting the liquid back into the muck – and on the table.

God almighty! _Coffee_! And of the most disgusting kind. Sweetened with some syrup. With cream! And, the most appalling thing at all, spices in it!

What had England come to if it wasn't possible to get a decent cup of tea if one needed one?

Only now he had a closer look at the firm's logo on the coaster.

"_**Starbuck's"**_

Vaguely he remembered that as a fictional character's name from a science fiction TV show he and his much younger brother had adored during their childhood. What had been that battleship's name? Panoptica? Antarctica? No. Galactica, yes, that was it.

More than the forbidding looks from the other tables and the disgusting taste the remembrance of his brother took away his appetite and he left the shop, hastily.

Outside he miraculously got a cab that brought him to Kensington Gardens where he found a few hobby sportsmen, some pensioners who fed squirrels and finally the long desired peace to sort out his thoughts.

While almost every man-jack of London's security forces was out looking for him, Mycroft Holmes sat on a bench in the sun and ransacked his brain for a way to bring Ronald Midair to justice without destroying what could well be the very last chance to find John Watson.

The original dossier on the most honourable scoundrel had been rather contrite.

"_Ronald Midair, born in London as the younger son of Jeffrey Midair, Viscount of Premridge. Father British, mother (Mildred) German._

_ 54 years of age but looks much older, mostly because of an individual style of dress. Unmarried, childless._

_ Left Britain after a quarrel with his father when he was 21 and has been living abroad looking after his family's business interests ever since. Inherited big estates in Kent on his elder brother's death a year back but didn't come back to the UK from Macao until three months ago. Another part of the inheritance was a substantial package of shares in two of the most important arms factories in the United States. _

_ Was twice charged with sexual abuse in Macao, but twice acquitted for lack of proof. No record in the UK or the US. _

_ Avoided direct contact with his family's friends or business associates whilst abroad but has revived his old acquaintances, apparently for business' sake, since his return. Distantly related or otherwise connected to some of the most influential people in the land (see appendix 1 for list of names)._

_Is generally considered extremely intelligent, a shrewd business man but cold, even arrogant albeit usually very well mannered and quite educated_._ Has been known to be aggressive and supercilious on occasions, though. However, his vast fortune apparently impresses even those who washed their hands off him in the past_."

Nothing in that had hinted at any reason for John Watson being abducted in broad daylight from a busy street in Ronald Midair's most expensive – as well as very noticeable – car.

Of course the car had been reported stolen two days prior to the abduction.

Of course it had been a mere coincidence that Ronald Midair had been seen in the same jewellery shop as John Watson only half an hour before the doctor had been taken.

Of course some waitress had reported that she had seen the elderly gentleman with the conspicuous clothes and voice in a coffee shop at the time of the kidnapping. And of course, a meticulous search of the house and the town flat of Ronald Midair had brought exactly nothing.

Instead, Mycroft had experienced the results of the connections '_to some of the most influential people in the land' _as well as the consequences of the adoration that came with the_ 'vast fortune' _first hand. Christ, even the Prime Minister's office and the US-Embassy had, if very gently, inquired as to the reasons for an investigation of this man's private affairs.

It had taken Mycroft Holmes more than twenty years to build up a network of his own with 'very influential people' and normally it protected him and his work from such interferences.

But not this time.

To bring his foot down he'd 'arranged' for a visit of Ronald Midair in his office.

The bastard hadn't even tried to lie convincingly.

– No, he hadn't known John Watson before he met him at the jeweller's. No, he had seen neither hide nor hair of the man ever since. Horrible fellow, by the way. There had been a time when the medical profession as well as the British army had been reserved for gentlemen but apparently that was no longer the case, as the police had told him that the missing bloke was a former army surgeon. –

All the time his sneer had told Mycroft that he was lying through his teeth but why the hell a man like this should kidnap a man like John Watson – Mycroft had rarely been _that_ clueless.

It occurred to him that John's friendship with Sherlock might come into it – but Sherlock was dead, had been dead for more than three years now and there was no connection to be found between Mycroft's late brother and Ronald Midair.

So, that was a dead end. Hadn't been a very promising idea from the start.

The bottom line was: Ronald Midair was clearly the only one who would know about John's fate, Ronald Midair was going to leave Britain for good in two weeks time, as 'the climate wasn't very agreeable'. Even if Mycroft could go for an arrest of the man – which he could not for obvious reasons – Midair wouldn't talk. His lawyers would get him out in no time and he would ride off into Macao's sunset and only he would know what this arrest had or had not cost his hostage.

Naturally Holmes had activated his contacts in Macao, and in the US.

Nothing.

Nothing but another call from the American Embassy.

Apparently Ronald Midair had contacted the Ambassador about his concerns that 'British paranoia' would prevent him from attending a charity event in which he would present some damned cancer research fund with a One Million Pounds donation in the name of one of the US arms manufacturers he held shares in.

Poor Mr. Midair – actually the Ambassador had called him 'the Viscount' and as always hearing an American call a British citizen by his aristocratic title made Mycroft's hair stand up – had suffered from skin cancer in the face some years ago and had been forced to stay in a clinic in Macao for more than six months of treatment.

It was 'the Viscount's' dearest wish to give back something of the blessing he had been given when he was cured to those who were less fortunate.

Jeez, Mycroft _hated_ the man.

And yet, he might still be successful, if only the memory of his late brother would give him a moment's peace.

Instead Sherlock kept pestering his elder brother's usually focussed and well ordered mind with questions and accusations. Why the hell hadn't he taken better care of John? Was it too much demanded from a man who prided himself in supervising the affairs of the world to properly supervise one single man? But then, Sherlock had always thought that his big brother was a fake, a puffed-up, self-important phoney; and a bully who only excelled in making better people's life an endless misery.

"_Once, just once in your useless life I've asked you to do me a favour_" Sherlock's angry voice shouted in Mycroft's head. "_I've asked you to take care of a friend. And look at you. Just look at you. You idiot! You blundering, brainless imbecile._"

Since the first message about John's abduction Mycroft felt haunted by his baby brother's wrath. Sherlock, for all him seeming so cold and aloof, had had a singular talent for throwing tantrums that could've frightened off an irritated tiger.

And since he had been sixteen and Sherlock had been eight, since the day their father had died, Mycroft had been the choice recipient of these tantrums, always.

Compared to his endless discussions with little brother's mental spectre, Mycroft's awkward talks with John's devastated wife or sister were a piece of cake. After all, there was always Anthea to rely on as soon as Mycroft's limited choice of comforting and encouraging phrases was exhausted.

But the inner dialogues with Sherlock had become an obsession. Mycroft was so preoccupied in these mental quarrels that he actually _saw_ his dead sibling everywhere. Today it had been worse than ever. He had looked out of his office's window, only to see Sherlock standing on the other side of the road. Later, Mycroft had spotted his brother somewhere in the crowd in front of Selfridge's.

This couldn't go on. Something had to be done. "What are you up to, Ronald Midair?" Mycroft muttered to himself. "_Who_ are you?"

"Someone you wouldn't really want to know" Sherlock said sombrely, directly at Mycroft's ear.

The elder brother turned his head and wasn't very surprised to look into the younger one's strained face.

Sherlock, his arms folded, leaned on the bench's back rest. "Hello, Mycroft." The faintest smile accompanied these words. "Glad to see me?"

"No" Mycroft replied, quite reasonably in his opinion. "I'm not glad to see you. You're a menace. Don't you know that?"

Sherlock looked down for an instant, shook his head and straightened his back with a soft sigh before he pushed himself away from the bench. "You're right of course. How stupid of me to assume differently. Forgive me." He nodded politely and turned to leave. "A good day to you, Mycroft!"

The elder brother watched him walk away. Sherlock's steps scrunched the loose gravel of the walkway; he turned up the collar of his coat, dug his hands into the pockets and walked faster.

Relief washed through Mycroft. Relief that he should have won this one so easily for a change. Perhaps his late brother would finally give him an opportunity to get some work done.

Funny, though.

Never before had he actually _seen_ his baby brother like that during their weird quarrels, he had mostly heard the angry, accusing and more than a bit disappointed voice. No steps on the ground to be heard or coats to fumble with.

And most definitely no warmth radiating from a living body right by his side!

The next second saw Mycroft Holmes, the man who employed a vast staff of experts for each and every thing, the man who'd nevertheless come to his younger brother whenever a case demanded what he called 'legwork', the man who called for his chauffeur when he wanted to reach the next block, running down Kensington Garden's central walkway at top speed. Umbrella hurling away unnoticed, hat getting lost for good, too; screaming for all he was worth. "Sherlock, wait! For God's sake, wait!"

But all the hours spent behind a desk had taken their toll. Diet or no, the well cut tailor made suit hid a few extra pounds of flesh that didn't exactly consist of muscles.

Ankles and knees aching, his lungs and throat stinging Mycroft reached the park's exit, looked around him and saw – just a few strangers walking down the road for no good reason at all. To hell with them, had they no homes or workplaces to stay in at that hour?

The tall, slender figure in the dark coat was nowhere to be seen.

It was one of Mycroft's most prominent traits of character that he never cried. Not even when he wanted too, the self-made taboo inside him was too strong. Their father had died when his first-born was still a teenager, their mother had been a child herself all her life; so bringing up Sherlock had mostly been Mycroft's responsibility. As the man in the house, he hadn't even shed a tear at their parents' funerals.

Sherlock, 12 when their mother had been buried, had cried his heart out until his elder brother had ordered him to stop.

"Why?" the boy had demanded to know. Stubborn, strong-willed and defiant, even then.

"Because I've brought only one handkerchief" 20 year old Mycroft had said. "And you can't be snotty-nosed when we reach the restaurant. What would people think?"

Sherlock had done as he had been told and another piece of their precarious relationship had been shattered beyond repair.

It had always been like that.

Mycroft straightened his clothes, combed his hair with his hands as best he could and walked on, aimlessly. He approached the next turn of the street and still he hadn't fully realized what this encounter really meant.

Sherlock wasn't dead.

His brother was alive.

Somewhere in this big, busy city, in this vast jungle made of buildings, machines and people the younger Holmes was moving, breathing...

Mycroft's eyes stung a bit; then they became a wee bit wet.

"_January wind_" he told himself. "_It's the cold_."

He came round the corner and found his familiar staff car waiting, barely 100 metres ahead.

Well, naturally that had only been a question of time.

Mycroft walked faster, but not fast enough to appear undignified.

"Did you have a nice walk, Sir?" Anthea asked when he reached her. If she was angry or still worried – her voice and demeanour gave nothing away.

"Indeed" Mycroft replied. "Should do this more often. It's so very refreshing."

"Very well, Sir. Although it was on very short notice, Sir. We arrived only just in time."

Mycroft cleared his throat awkwardly. He had indeed broken his own rule – no member of the inner circle entered or left the building without notifying his superior or assistant first.

Making a mental note that this shouldn't happen again, the elder Holmes dived into the car, grateful for the warmth inside.

"I do hope you've brought your own handkerchief, Mycroft. You need one and I haven't brought one!"

Inescapably jammed between two sturdy built security officers Sherlock made a disgusted face before he looked out of the nearest window as if his brother's arrival was of no importance to him.

For the blink of an eye Mycroft remained in his uncomfortable position, half outside, half inside the car, completely motionless.

And then, for the first and for the last time in his life, Mycroft Holmes blacked out.


	7. Reunifications

**7****. Reunifications**

Sherlock's fingers drummed against his hip nervously as he stared out of Mycroft's living room window.

Not that the sight did much to improve his mood or calm his visibly tensed up nerves.

The trees in Regent's Park were dripping wet. Grey in grey the short January day carried on as it had begun, with an ice cold wind and the promise of more bleak rainy days to come.

"These apartments come with a heating system, dear boy. You could take off your coat!"

Mycroft suppressed an irritated remark when the coat landed in his face a second later. "Thanks! How very kind of you, Sherlock." With a purposeful 'bang' the elder Holmes put a pot of tea on the table. His relief when Sherlock took up the clue and poured himself a cup was quite out of proportion.

Alas, it was also premature.

Apparently Sherlock had no wish to make things easier for his elder brother after their unfortunate encounter in the park. "Tell me what you've got about Ronald Midair, Mycroft and I'm off."

Instantaneously Mycroft gave up all pretence that this was a friendly eye-to-eye chat. "You'll do no such thing. You'll stay here until further notice, dear boy."

The younger brother huffed. "Are you suggesting you'd hold me here against my will? You're welcome to try."

All brotherly instincts in Mycroft Holmes booted up to red-alert, turning him from his usual self of a serene and aloof gentleman into an unendurable blend of an overprotective mother hen and a perfect bully. In other words, he impersonated the special incarnation of Mycroft Holmes that had driven the younger brother away from his home the day he'd turned eighteen. "Sherlock, you look a mess. You're obviously half starved, you're wet, you're tired out and in case you've forgotten, until this day I thought you'd ended up as Atlantic fish food three years ago."

As was the custom between the brothers, the patronising tone of voice was a pain in the neck of the younger one. Sherlock rolled his eyes, put down the cup, grabbed his coat and was off to the exit before Mycroft knew what was happening. The detective already had his hand on the door handle when his elder brother caught up with him. "I warn you, Sherlock. Try to leave without my consent and you'll be arrested!"

"Says who?"

"Say I and the guards I've posted outside."

The younger man's eyes narrowed dangerously. "That's unlawful detention, dear brother. Just as well that I phoned Lestrade as soon as I knew I'd meet you today. If I shouldn't keep our appointment tonight, he'd come looking for me!"

Mycroft's jaws tensed. "You've given away _this_ address to an outsider?"

"To the law enforcement officers, dear brother. A civic duty. Shouldn't you appreciate that, as a faithful servant to the Queen?"

Mycroft drew a deep, shuddering breath and hid his hands, itching for the relief of a good old-fashioned slap into baby brother's face, behind his back. "All right, dear boy, you've won. I suggest a compromise. You stay here and get yourself together and later on Anthea will take you to your appointment in my car."

"There's no need…"

"My last word, little brother. If you think I'll let you out of my sight with John's kidnappers as well as this psychopath Moriarty still on the loose, think again."

Sherlock exhaled impatiently and raised his hands in exasperated surrender. "Have it your way. But I know how to deal with Ronald Midair, and Moriarty is dead." He turned and strolled back into the living room energetically. "Would you mind if I got myself another cup of this marvellous tea?"

"_One of these days_" Mycroft thought "_one of these days little one, I'll put you over my knee and give you a good ol' thrashing until you see the stars falling from the sky and beg for mercy_."

"Are there some biscuits or am I overtaxing your hospitality?" _little one's _acid voice came from the living room.

"_Well, it could have been wor_se" Mycroft tried to convince himself inwardly. "_He could have jumped at me the moment I mentioned John's name_." His eyes closed, mentally counting up to ten to calm his racing heart and twitching biceps, the elder brother gridded the answer out. "I'm dieting."

"Aren't you always" Sherlock retorted, his voice dripping with irony. "And always to no avail!" He looked over his shoulder. "A least we know why you fainted earlier. I _had_ begun thinking it had anything to do with seeing me alive. Ridiculous, isn't it."

Mycroft winced as if he had been slapped in the face. "Sherlock, for heaven's sake, will you tell me what happened to you since I attended your memorial service or not! How on earth could you escape the abyss after the plane crashed?"

The detective's eyes glittered with vengeful joy at the sight of his usually composed brother losing his temper. "Mycroft. Dear brother. You astound me. Try to find your brain and switch it on, please. Naturally I did _not_ escape the abyss. How should I?"

Mycroft's nail dug into the chair's soft cushioning. "Am I to understand then that you're my brother's spirit, doom'd for a certain term to walk the night?"

"I had no problems escaping the abyss" Sherlock said with superciliously exaggerated patience "because I was never in it."

"Were you not."

"No, I was never in it. The plane didn't sink, at least not at once. Moran managed an emergency landing on the water, all three of us got out but Moriarty was injured. Head wound. We were separated in the water and I lost sight of Moran. A fisher boat took Moriarty and me in a while later but he died without regaining consciousness within the hour."

Mycroft rose and turned his back on his brother. "What do you take me for?" he asked after a while, a bit hoarsely. "A half-wit?"

"You're sure you wanna know?"

The elder turned back and grabbed both armrests of the other's chair, thereby forcing his brother to look him in the eye. "Sherlock, don't lie to me. Whatever has happened to you, whatever you've done in these three years, I promise I'll try to understand. But I beg you, don't lie to me. I know you don't like me much, but I don't deserve that from you."

"What makes you think I'm lying?" Sherlock retorted as calm as you please.

"I investigated your kidnapping, dear boy. Moran sent an email to Moriarty, days after the event, saying that you had been killed in the crash."

The younger brother raised a brow. "And what, pray enlighten me, made you believe he sent that email to James Moriarty?"

"There was no doubt that he'd sent it to the man who'd given the order to take you."

"I should think so, yes."

"Sherlock, sometimes I…." despairing, Mycroft let go of the chair.

His brother scrutinized him, with his best enigmatic face on. "If one didn't know better one might, occasionally, assume you like me" he then said, annoyingly playing with the fine bone china tea cup. "But I'm nothing but a disturbance to you, ain't I."

"_And whose fault might that be_?" Mycroft thought. But - humour little brother or turn him into an oyster of the especially close-mouthed sort. There was nothing in between. "Come on, Sherlock, shatter me. What is it that I do not see?"

"That the man behind my abduction was James Moriarty, but the man behind James Moriarty was Ronald Midair."

Mycroft settled once more in his chair, folded his hands under his chin and looked at his brother. "Sherlock, do an old man a favour. Start at the beginning and go on from there, nice and slowly."

The younger Holmes did his best to suppress a satisfied grin and he - almost - succeeded. No one but Tarantula with his years of experience would've seen it. "_Got cha_" Mycroft thought. "_Now I'll hear the whole story, if only to be smothered by your superior intellect_."

"As the fisher boat had been about some business illegal under European law" Sherlock began "I had no problems to convince them that I was best left alone. Moriarty went to the bottom of the sea and none the wiser. The fishermen put me ashore some place quiet and happily forgot all about me and my companion."

The detective raised his shoulders nonchalantly. "I was on my way to the nearest village, to contact the British embassy – and thereby you, dear brother – when it suddenly occurred to me what a marvellous chance fate had given me. To all concerned, I was dead."

Mycroft winced and his brother at least had the decency to look at his feet before he continued. "Especially Moran, should he be alive, which was highly probable, would think so. Moriarty had boasted about his important employer, so I was sure Moran would contact the man, tell him I'd drowned, as this was the best way to save his own skin. It was obvious that our dear Colonel needed the man's protection, now that Moriarty was gone, as he surely wanted to make it back to Britain and his army career."

"And this employer Moriarty told you about was Ronald Midair? What would he want with you?"

"Moriarty wasn't the mastermind he pretended to be. Midair had built the criminal empire, the 'criminal consulting agency' Moriarty prided himself on. James was merely Ronald's agent for the UK. As Moriarty said to John and me – I'd come a bit too close in the past. Taking me alive promised to be more fun than just shooting me in the back, so he began his 'great game'."

Again, Mycroft's face grew hot at the mentioning of Dr. Watson but apparently Sherlock still wasn't interested in talking about his friend. "And Moriarty told you all that during your flight" Tarantula asked, instinctively searching for the hole in the story. Old habits die hard.

"Moran made a slip of the tongue" Sherlock replied drily. "I explored it and, to serve his vanity and his puffed-up ego, Moriarty began boasting about his connections to a man like Ronald Midair. He had been revealed as a mediocrity, but he could still brag of the great man entrusting such an important operation to him." Sherlock shook his head. "So, to just disappear for a few years was my best option."

These 'few years' had been a living hell for the elder brother. The loss had been hard enough to kill a man, and that Mycroft's nature forced him to gulp it all down and keep it there hadn't made things easier to bear. His little brother meant the world to him, and no one knew what these three years had cost him.

Never to talk about it was Mycroft's gift to Sherlock. A gift that would go unappreciated, as much as all the others the younger brother had been given over the years.

From this moment on, Mycroft had one of these schizophrenic talks with his brother in which he said one thing and thought something completely different.

"I see" the elder Holmes said contemplatively. "Surely he'd tried again to get you, had Midair known you're still alive. It was a wise thing to do, to vanish as you did."

"Indeed."

"What did you do?" Tarantula looked the other over furtively. "_What brought you to that dismal state_?

"I travelled. Latin America. India. I came as close to England as Scandinavia and Germany for a while but then I thought it might be _too_ close."

"_And in all this time, not a word. No sign. I went to the stone on our family's grave and thought I'd die and you thought you'd better travel on_." Mycroft poured himself another cup of tea. "I mean, what did you do for money?"

"This and that. Translations, mostly. I worked as a chauffeur for a time with an eccentric old Lady in Mumbai. Once or twice I solved a case but naturally I couldn't take the risk of drawing attention."

"Naturally." Behind his folded hands, Mycroft bit his lower lip. "_One call. Just __**one **__call from any European or US-Embassy, and the whole British Secret Service would've been willing to __protect you. But no, you had to weather it out on your own_._ Leaving me to do the same._"

Sherlock waved his left hand casually. "When nothing worked out or when I needed to change my address in a hurry, I contacted Lestrade for some money. Small sums of course." He grinned. "If one wishes to avoid the attention of Mycroft Holmes, one has to be careful. Hence the number of small bank accounts registered in Lestrade's name, to store away the 25.000 Pounds I earned with the job at the bank."

"_Fascinating_" the elder brother thought "_Does he enjoy torturing me or doesn't he even know he's doing it?_" He cocked his brow in mild astonishment. "You didn't know what was going to happen when you opened these accounts."

Sherlock's grin became perfectly beastly. "The money was there, and when it comes to finding a reliable trustee for my interests you're not exactly my first choice, dear brother. I'd rather chosen John but he's too kind-hearted to keep you in the dark."

Finally Sherlock had caused the landslide he'd been aiming at as Mycroft's carefully maintained façade fell. "I should have thought I'm as trustworthy as your flatmate" the elder said and the hurt in his voice and face was unmistakable.

"Our parents' inheritance was the chain you kept me tied down by" Sherlock retorted mercilessly "and as to your reliability, John's safety _was_ entrusted to you and you failed. A blunder, by the way, that flushed me out of hiding and thereby risks my neck!"

Mycroft's throat constricted and he felt faintly sick. All of a sudden checking Sherlock's tale for loops of logic wasn't important anymore, as an overwhelming urge to vindicate himself expelled all other thoughts from his mind.

It was as if the younger brother could read the other's mind as he dug into the first cut and turned the figurative knife in the wound with cruel and expert precision. "More fool I was for thinking you could ever change, Mycroft. You've always made sure I'm dependant on you, so that I'd be yours, neck and crop. You're a selfish, possessive devil, full of jealous spite, no wonder you were gratified to see John in jeopardy."

"That's not true, Sherlock. I tried my best to safeguard his wellbeing, I…."

"Then where is he now, eh, mastermind? Every camera in London, every policeman, every resource of this country at your disposal and you dare telling me that Midair outsmarted you?"

"Damn it, you're the expert on Midair Sherlock, you tell me. I bet John has been taken because of _you_, not me."

The younger Holmes paled considerably. Obviously it was much easier for him to lay blame than to take it. Slowly, conscientiously he put down his cup and rose. "If that's how you see it Mycroft, you better give me what you have on Ronald Midair since he's come back to London and I'll be off. I'm going to be late for my appointment with Lestrade as it is."

Mycroft was absurdly, ridiculously relieved that this remark gave him an excuse for coming back to some mere facts, abandoning the harmful personal debate for the time being, as he felt pitifully inadequate for such a conversation, as always. "I did everything I could to incriminate Midair with John's abduction but so far I…."

Sometimes, very rarely, when Sherlock had chosen his ways carefully, he could play his brother like a violin and he certainly did so now. "Not excuses dear brother, facts!"

Mycroft inhaled sharply. Bristling with anger. Every member of his staff would've taken cover at the sight of him. But the unbelievable happened: Tarantula threw no tantrum, he just obeyed, meekly. "Well, Midair'd rather stayed in Macao, but his brother's death forced him to come back to Britain. He took up residence in the family's estate in Kent."

"Mycroft, tell me something I couldn't learn from reading the yellow press please."

"There've been problems in one of the weapon firms he's got shares in. They've deliberately overcharged the British governments on more than one deal…."

Sherlock huffed sarcastically. "Are there arms' dealers who don't?"

"…. it has been rumoured that they've tried to hijack another firm's technology and know-how for a very valuable submarine weapon system, but nothing could be proved."

"Why not?"

"_If_ Midair's American buddies got hold of the blueprint at all, they can't have been overjoyed as it was piecemeal at best. MI 6 assumed that, _if_ there was any truth to the rumours in the first place, they'd tried to rebuild the rest from what they'd got but they didn't come very far and abandoned the idea in the end. Anyway – as they never tried to sell anything, there's no proof."

"So the British government saw no reason to exclude Midair's 'American buddies' from any further deals?" Sherlock asked acidly.

"Midair is extremely well connected. Besides, as the original plans are by now in my care, no further risk is to be feared until the original firm can launch the product, which should be the case next month."

The younger Holmes shook his head disbelievingly. "You mean you've got the only complete copy of the original plans in a desk in a governmental building in the centre of London?"

Mycroft smiled. "You know where 'my safe office' is, don't you Sherlock." Fondly the elder brother's gaze wandered to the living room's second door before it came back to his brother.

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "There's nothing in that to explain why John has been abducted. And please, do not repeat that nonsense that he's been kidnapped on my behalf. Midair still thinks that I'm dead, remember?"

Mycroft frowned and opened his mouth for a reply but Sherlock interrupted him – and his thoughts – once more. "Was there nothing else? Anything in the branch of military medicine?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because John once said that he'd been employed in some top security research before he went to Afghanistan; some project that was red hot at first but was later abandoned. Hastily and without the usual red tape."

Mycroft pouted for a second. He felt more than a bit embarrassed when he continued.

"A few years ago one of their senior researchers was fired after the US-government had cancelled an order for a new computer chip that had cost millions in developing" Tarantula said grudgingly. It was outright humiliation that such an important fact of John Watson's life should have escaped his notice. "Meant as a means for locating soldiers or agents during field missions the chip is injected subcutaneously. It settles itself at a person's brainstem where it can't be detected by normal screening equipment but sends a signal or distress call. Unfortunately, it never worked out that way. Instead they'd developed the perfect assassination machine. From a 100 kilometres distance you can trigger the chip via an equally undetectable, ordinary looking remote control. The result is an agonizing, prolonged death by incurable haemorrhaging deep inside the brain accompanied by spasms and manic behaviour. By all appearances natural death caused by a hidden brain disease. End of story."

"Charming" Sherlock said. "It never ceases to surprise me with what some people like to spend their time. And _I'm_ the one who's frequently called a psychopathic freak!"

Mycroft chose to ignore that. "Anyway, the senior researcher didn't take kindly to being dismissed, so he stole two of the chips, together with the respective remote controls. Fortunately he died in an accident, mere hours after the theft. He, the chips and the controls burned to cinder in his car. A complete loss, nothing was salvaged."

Mycroft flinched indignantly when Sherlock's palm hit the table. "That's it, Mycroft. I'd bet any money that the chips weren't lost: I'd even go as far as to say that Ronald Midair murdered his brother with one these things. It was a brain disease that killed the lateViscount of Premridge, was it not?"

Thunderstruck, the elder brother forgot his irritation. "Yes. Yes, by God, you're right. I can't believe I overlooked that….."

"It's only natural big brother, you were solely focused on a recent and personal motive for John being kidnapped. You couldn't know that Watson had been part of that research team once."

Any sadistic torture he could think of the elder Holmes would've suffered before he'd ever admitted how great it felt to have his little brother's hand on his shoulder in that moment, actually squeezing it in unfeigned enthusiasm. For a blissful second all barriers between them were gone.

Sherlock was beside himself with the rapture of final understanding. "Oooh, that's great. Finally a point where we can start. He needs John's expertise; after all he's got only one chip left."

Truth be told, Mycroft didn't quite follow, but for once it was irrelevant. This singular moment of mutual understanding was too precious to be lost and nothing but his brother's ardour counted. "What do you want me to do, Sherlock?"

The younger brother grinned merrily. "Don't you see? We've got the perfect bait for our villain – me!"

"_You_?"

"Surely it's obvious, Mycroft. Midair first stumbled about John when he came for me and he learned of Watson's importance only afterwards. He's got the one now, but he still wants the other. As soon as he knows that I'm alive he'll make his move and you can get him."

"But…."

"No buts and ifs big brother, you'll catch him, I've got every confidence in you." Sherlock was overjoyed now. "Think of it, Mycroft, John and I can finally go back to Baker Street, openly and for good. No more sleeping under bridges, no begging for work in some godforsaken places, no slaving away for some bullies to earn a passage – God, I can hardly await going back to my old life! Tell you what brother, I'll go and see Lestrade and I'll come back later tonight, for us to make some final arrangements. Or don't you want me to stay?"

Out of the blue Mycroft found himself face to face not with a sulking, reluctant sibling who quite obviously wished him to hell but with a young man, eager to please and to include the other in his plans. It was great, wonderful – and overwhelmingly alien. "When will you be back, Sherlock?"

"Oh, by eleven or not much later. It's about the money, actually. You know, all these little accounts in Lestrade's name?" The detective smiled, no longer derisively but friendly, openly and Mycroft thought how desperately he had wanted to see that face.

Sherlock Holmes could be utterly charming if he wished to; he had been able to charm his way into the heart of the most vicious, penny-pinching and parsimonious of their old relatives, even as a child. Their mother had been utterly defenceless against his charm offensives anyway. Only Mycroft had hardly ever been blessed with encountering this side of his brother's personality.

"We won't need these accounts any longer now, will we Mycroft. Are you going back to your 'official' office this afternoon or will you stay here until I'm back?"

Mycroft answered without thinking. "I think I'll work for a few hours but I'll be back in time for your return."

"Great. That's great. See you then!"

And Sherlock was gone.

Still smiling softly, Mycroft went to the opposite window to watch his brother and Anthea enter the car and drive away. Slowly a warm, comforting feeling rose inside him. In more than one aspect he had got his little brother back.

All would be well now. As it should have been years, oh what was he thinking, _decades_ ago.

This firm convincement stayed with the elder Holmes for the rest of the day. It soothed him. In fact, it virtually sedated him.

Not just once the great, brilliant mastermind of the British Secret Service thought about the fact that Sherlock's tale had been vague about some important issues.

Instead the few clues Sherlock had, obviously quite unintentionally, given about the circumstances of his life abroad – what with sleeping under bridges or slaving away for some bullies – occupied Mycroft's imagination exclusively.

Even whilst drudging through some paper work in his 'official' office – which was none other than his office in one of the camouflaged residences of MI 6 – Mycroft really thought of little else but how to make up for these awful years to his little brother.

All would be well now.


	8. House of mirrors

**8****. House of mirrors**

Sherlock waved a merry good-bye at Anthea who didn't really see it, as she was busy pressing the touch screen of her smart phone. Fresh orders from headquarters no doubt.

Once inside the foyer of the apartment house that, among others, harboured a certain Detective Inspector Lestrade, Holmes lingered behind one of the windows until he could be sure that the car had really left for good.

When it had, the young man smiled briefly, a hard, peculiar looking grimace. "Doesn't need much to make you happy and content, elder brother, does it?" he murmured under his breath. "Had it been anyone but me, you'd never failed to order this car to wait and watch."

Quickly Sherlock took the stairs down into the cellars, crossed them, opened one of the unused looking chambers with a small key and vanished inside for a while.

Afterwards he relocked the room, cracked the locked door to the backyard and finally reached the busy road on the building complex's other side, from where it took him only a few steps to reach the nearest underground station for the Bakerloo Line.

He changed train and direction on several occasions, using different anonymous prepaid oystercards, all the time relying on the CCTV recording pictures of a significantly younger, blond and a bit sordid man in multi-coloured, funky clothes which nevertheless blended in perfectly – and therefore inconspicuously – with the equally multicoloured, multi-ethnic hurly-burly of 21th century London.

As Mycroft despised masks or camouflages, except mental or electronic ones, Sherlock had never felt compelled to tell him which stage of brilliancy his make-up artistry had really achieved.

"_Big Brother is watching you_" Sherlock thought "_and he doesn't even know it_."

Finally he took a cab that brought him to some run-down former factory premises. Long since abandoned by their original owners, they nowadays harboured a slowly but surely emerging scene of young artists and musicians, making ready to conquer a so far unsuspecting world.

The cabbie thanked for the generous tip he'd got and drove off, shaking his head. "Americans" he said to himself. "Don't they have enough crazy ones on their side of the big pond; must they come to London for more trash?"

Some of the sheds or barely furnished buildings of a long forgotten industry had been made into makeshift studios or stages, others served as flats for those who wanted to put all their preciously little money in their art.

In one of those impromptu flats Sherlock found the man he had come to see.

The inhabitant of 'Shed 51', as the hand painted sign at the door stated, stood with his back to the door when Sherlock entered stealthily. The tall man in his mid-fifties looked oddly out of place in these shabby surroundings. Black slacks, black cashmere jumper, black slippers, all of the finest quality money can buy. Civilian clothes, but with a certain military style.

In other words, he looked like a would-be James Bond with a moustache.

"Good day to you" Sherlock said calmly and only now the man darted round, an – of all types – Walther PPK ready in his hand. He lowered the weapon in the last possible moment. "Damn it, how often did I tell you not to creep up on me like a cat! I could've killed you thinking you're one of his men."

"I've _been_ one of his men" Holmes answered. "And so have you, Colonel Moran."

The former RAF-Officer shrugged that off. "That's long in the past and best forgotten" he grunted "as long as you're not at his beck and call now."

"Thanks to you I'm not" Holmes retorted.

Moran grinned menacingly, holding up a small black item, virtually dangling it in front of Sherlock's face. With no garage door anywhere in or near the flat, the thing was as much a misfit in this place as its owner. "Even so, if it weren't for these little beauties you'd not lift a finger on my behalf, Mr Holmes. I know I'm not among the persons you care about."

Sherlock's eyes hung at the black plastic item for a second with an almost hungry expression before he concentrated once more on his counterpart. He took a big envelope from a bag over his shoulder and offered it to Moran. "10.000 quit, as agreed. A South African passport, a driver's licence in the same name of Kenneth Rupert and a flight ticket to Kapstadt. You leave tonight and I'll never set eyes on you or hear from you again."

"Where did you get these things? I take it you did not use your brother's connections?"

"Leave him out of this!" The mere mentioning of Mycroft let Sherlock's temper flare up in an instant. Reflexively Moran raised his hands and Holmes forced himself to speak a bit quieter. "Don't worry. I've got friends of my own in certain circles. The fakes are excellent, the money and the ticket are genuine. Now take your loot and piss off." Sherlock threw the envelope at the other's feet and stretched out a demanding hand. "The contract goods now, _if_ you please. You're, forgive me for reminding you, somewhat pressed for time."

"10.000 Pounds is not the world" Moran drawled. "And I'm not the fool you take me for. I've only brought the one, the other is hidden in a safe place. I'll tell you where it is, but nor for a meagre 10.000 quit."

Sherlock's jaws tensed as he swallowed. "It's the agreed sum" he retorted. "There's no way to give you more right now. I can't lay my hands on the rest of my money, not without calling my brother's attention."

"C'me on, Sherlock. I know you're smarter than that, much smarter. After all, that was why the big man chose you for a personal lapdog instead of just cutting your throat. You must've known I'd not settle for so measly a sum."

Moran yelped when he was pushed against the wall forcibly, an arm over his throat and a knife, appeared out of nowhere in Sherlock's hand, glittering threateningly close to his face. And yet the Colonel laughed. "Go on, Holmes. Cut my neck, or cut my heart out, whatever suits your whim. You'll never have a good night's rest in your life with only one of the darn things. Not even you can tell them apart, can you? What if he finds the other one before you do?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth until he tasted blood on his tongue, but he let the other go. "As I said, I can't get you more for now. But there will be more later on, I promise. Now tell me where it's hidden and we can finally see the last of each other."

"You must think I'm incredibly stupid. If I give it to you now, why should you pay up?"

"You can stop the tomfoolery, Moran. I know you've taken the photos, too. All those little snapshots of me and our mutual friend."

"And you wouldn't want Mycroft to see them, would you." Moran tut-tutted ironically. "Does your brother know how highly you value him and his opinion of you?"

Sherlock stood no chance to answer, as Moran suddenly lost his amused expression. His eyes widened and he grabbed his stomach. In no time his brow was covered in cold sweat and he was panting.

"What is it? Moran, what's the matter with you?"

The Colonel's legs gave in and he slumped in Sherlock's arms, whimpering. Foam covered his lips when he tried to form words. "Poison" Sherlock finally understood. "He poisoned me. He said he would if I betrayed him. Said he'd poison me like the rat I am."

"Moran, for God's sake, where is the second RC? Tell me. Now! Moran…"

"It's back to the leash for you now" the Colonel stammered laboriously. "Believe it….. or not…I'm…. sorry…"

It took a while before Sherlock was willing to accept that he cradled a corpse in his arms. When realization finally sank in, he dropped the body and started a frantic search of the pockets until he found what he'd craved from the start. He searched again, and again, but there was nothing else.

Nothing, that was, but a small mobile phone. Cheap model, prepaid. Something to be used for a day or two, only to be thrown away afterwards.

The thing rang; an unnerving sound. No identity given in the display. "_Why take the trouble_" Sherlock thought. "_As if I didn't know who it is_."

Or what this call meant.

Not that Sherlock hadn't known his spell of freedom was over the second he'd seen Lestrade and Mycroft entering John's new house in Notting Hill, Harry following minutes later and the yellow press making a hype of Ronald Midair being questioned by the police about a certain John Watson M. D. the very next day.

Not even Tarantula had been powerful enough to keep that juicy bit of news out of the papers.

So Sherlock had known he'd be in for another walk on the razor's edge. Barefooted as always. Moran had been the one to sell him some boots, but now he was dead.

Holmes took the call.

"Sherlock?" the familiar, hateful voice asked. "That's you, my friend? Long time no see."

"Yes" Holmes answered "I enjoyed every minute of it."

"How unkind of me to be the spoilsport, but daddy has to cancel your unauthorized outing. I presume Sebastian's passed on to a better world?"

"Yes."

"Wouldn't you love to know how I did it?"

"Would it matter if I said I don't?"

"No, I fear I'm too proud of it. You know, poisons are one of my favourite hobbies. This one I mixed up myself. It takes 24 hours to be effective but then it kills within minutes. It's not very painful, but then, nobody is perfect."

"So you had Moran poisoned _yesterday_?"

"Yes. Bought himself a coffee to go, the idiot, and took his time drinking it, roaming about the streets of London. My agent had no trouble lacing the coffee with the stuff while our dear Colonel was admiring some ties in a shop window."

"Poetic!" Sherlock managed to get out before he had to shut his mouth against the bile coming out.

"Yes, isn't it. A stroke of genius, if I say so myself. But let's come back to the business at hand. You've been very naughty, Sherlock, running away like you did. I was very disappointed and although my heart bleeds, I cannot let this go unpunished. Other people will be involved…."

"No need to be rude, James. That's vulgar."

"There's _every_ need, Sherlock, my dear. I'd never taken your Johnny-friend for the pleasure of his company; he's much too dull for that."

"Then why not take _me_ from the nearest street?"

The other took his time and when he answered his voice had lost some of its original confidence and mockery. "Touché, my dear. I did my best, but I couldn't find you. Not before you contacted the late Colonel, to buy yourself a means to leverage me for sweet Johnny's sake. Congratulations for outsmarting me."

Sherlock closed his eyes. If one beat this man on any given thing, one lived to regret it. Regret it until one wished one was dead. Particularly '_if other people were to be involved'_.

It was the monster's magic word. Sherlock would always want it to be him who paid the prize for his short-lived triumphs. "Be a good boy for once, James. I'll come to you, you'll let John go; it's as easy as that."

"You always prided yourself on not being a betting man. And now Sherlock Holmes is prepared to take a fifty-fifty chance? Just as well I took precautions against that."

"Don't talk in riddles, old sport, it's too boring!"

"Look at what you've got from Moran, Sherlock. Look very closely."

For the first time since he'd got it, Holmes did exactly that. Scrutinize the small black plastic box with the two buttons. Finally his gaze got stuck at the serial number on the backside. Seven figures. Seven damned figures were correct and one was wrong.

"I'm holding them now, Sherlock. Both of them. I could press a button any time. There _is_ no fifty-fifty chance. There's no chance for you at all."

Holmes felt a disgusting, metallic taste in his mouth, like ashes.

"I gave Moran a fake, Sherlock. A fake, but still just one. He _lied_ to you, mastermind. And you fell for it, because it was what you wanted to believe."

And Holmes had always thought 'the bitter taste of defeat' was nothing but an especially stupid metaphor! "It hurt Moran to learn you'd never trusted him, James. You can be proud of yourself."

"I trusted _you_, Sherlock. Trusted you with my darkest secrets, trusted you enough to keep the reins slack on you, very slack. _Too_ slack." Moriarty inhaled deeply, shuddering, as if he was about to cry. "You're like a brother to me, Sherlock, an indispensable part of me. I can't bear losing you, I need you close. When will you finally understand?"

Suddenly Holmes could no longer control his emotions. "It had nothing to do with _trust_" he burst out, his voice shaking.

Moriarty was audibly glad he'd rattled his prey, but he didn't explore the faux pas any further. "Call it what you like, my dear. Fact is, I want us back, the way we were. Yet I'm awfully tired of watching out for you. Your disgusting strive for independence will _end_, Sherlock, here and now. From now on you'll do exactly as I say and I might – I say, _might_ – be willing to forget what you did to me. How deeply your desertion hurt me. Do you understand?"

Years ago Holmes had learned that there was always a point at which he had to concede victory to his enemy, if only to avoid further casualties. The problem was to know _when_ to succumb. Back off too early and Moriarty would bring the game to the next level because he didn't want to stop yet. Back off too late and you'd never forget the repercussions.

Sherlock's instincts told him that it was time to back off _now_. "All right James, you win, as always. What do you want me to do?"

At first Holmes noticed only the deep satisfaction in the other's voice. It told him that he had timed it perfectly and the sudden relief made his head swim. However, as he listened on he shivered from a sudden cold. "That's absurd James. I can't do that, Mycroft values his career above all else."

"What your brother values or not is not my concern, Sherlock. _Your_ esteem for _him_ is what interests me. Or perhaps you'd prefer me taking it out on your dear doctor-friend?"

For a while, there was only silence on both ends of the line.

"Sherlock?" Moriarty finally asked. "Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Don't forget your appointments with my agent. Or I will be sooo angry. By the way, I think your doggy _does_ feel a bit lonely. Shall I give him your regards?"

"No."

"As you wish, my dear. Well, it was nice talking to you. I had so much fun. Leave the phone with the body, my bin men are already on their way to do the clean up. See you soon."

"I'll be there, don't worry."

"Yes" Moriarty said jovially "I know you will."

Then the line was dead.

Sherlock let the mobile fall like a nasty vermin, ran to the flat's small lav' and threw up all he had in his stomach.

10 minutes later he was on his way back to Lestrade's house.

An imagined clock ticked away in his head and could not be silenced, albeit it drove him mad. For all his efforts he made it to the rendezvous with Moriarty's 'agent' only just in time and received the dark box with the memory cards as planned.

For the rest of the evening, on his way back, when he changed into his own self in the cellar and when he took the elevator, the thing burned a hole into his pocket.

Nevertheless he lingered at Lestrade's flat, who was honestly overjoyed to finally see him again, longer than he could reasonably afford to.

But finally the clock on the wall approached 22:30 hours and as he had expected, Anthea's car approached the house.

Sherlock Holmes had often dreaded meeting his brother but never before had he dreaded seeing Mycroft as much as he did now.

For he could no longer postpone what had to be done. Unfortunately, Moriarty was perfectly right: Sherlock loved his brother fiercely. Actually he loved him enough to betray him in the meanest, cruellest way possible, without a second thought.


	9. Last farewells

**9. A last farewell**

Mycroft watched his brother furtively when they approached the underground car park.

The 'point of no return'. Try as he might, the elder Holmes couldn't get that awful label out of his mind, once it had conjured itself up there. Again and again he told himself that it would only be for a short while, two or three hours at most, before Sherlock would be back and Midair would be arrested, hopefully with a certain John Watson getting all the care and treatment Mycroft's staff could provide.

"You know the plan, Sherlock" Mycroft said for the umpteenth time, and not even he would've taken offence had the younger brother yelled at him for the constant pestering.

However, Sherlock was understanding and empathy itself. Obediently he repeated the details of the plan once more. He'd change cars in the garage, rendezvous with Midair, apparently to surrender himself to the man. John would be released, Sherlock would follow his captor willingly but a microchip hidden in his shirt collar would give their position away until the Secret Service agents on their track would stop them and arrest Midair.

"Piece of cake, big brother" Sherlock smiled. He seemed perfectly at ease, relaxed even. Relieved that, after four weeks of meticulous planning and baiting the intended prey had finally agreed to be walked into the trap.

The younger Holmes had made small appearances, at Lestrade's place, at Mycroft's office, finally at 221B Baker Street. He had visited Sarah, then Harry. Both women were not aware of the plan to bait John's kidnapper, therefore their reaction had been completely natural and spontaneous. They had _not_ been pleased to see Sherlock alive and free, as both had assumed that it had something to do with John's kidnapping. They had made their feelings plain, publicly, and it had not been a very pleasant experience for the Detective.

For weeks Sherlock had roamed the streets of London, showing his face, but then they'd been successful: The Detective had received a message from Midair. Naturally he had sworn that Mycroft didn't know and miraculously the criminal had believed him.

Mycroft had done everything in his power to strengthen this belief. Against all his instincts he had allowed his brother to act independently, unguarded. All communications with Midair had been Sherlock's business and his alone, albeit Anthea and her colleagues had had cold sweat running down their spines every time the younger Holmes had worked alone, like a circus artist in lofty height without a safety net.

Today their efforts should finally be rewarded. Each and every man and woman were in place. All eventualities had been provided for.

Nothing could go awry. All was taken care of.

The plan was absolutely waterproof.

And still, Mycroft hated every single part of it.

When the car stopped in the garage the elder brother couldn't help himself. "You will take care Sherlock, won't you."

"Yes. Of course."

"Don't finger the collar dear boy. You might give the chip away."

"No, of course not."

"And remember: No unnecessary risks. Just stick to the plan."

Meanwhile they had both left the car. The parting could no longer be avoided.

Sherlock had already taken the keys for the car he had rented for the trip to the rendezvous point. Mycroft, who detested seeing his brother drive a car almost as much as Sherlock himself, winced at the sight. "I have every confidence in you, little brother" he said, more to reassure himself than Sherlock. "Every confidence. Always had."

The Detective nodded curtly and turned away. He had already made it half way to the other car when he suddenly turned round, came back and gave Mycroft the first bear hug in almost thirty years.

For a second Tarantula was perplexed. His knees wobbled in a slightly embarrassing way. Then he returned the hug, most awkwardly.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft" Sherlock said softly. "And grateful for all the things you did for me. Please don't forget that."

The embrace ended as abruptly as it had begun and Sherlock was gone, driving by far too fast and aggressively for Mycroft's taste, as always.

Tarantula leaned back in the seat of his own car and they made it to the rented office that served as the operation's headquarters.

Anthea watched him in the mirror and shook her head.

She knew it was impossible but still she could have sworn her boss had a somewhat red-ish nose and hot cheeks.

They settled in their office and the waiting began.

Everything went according to plan; a smooth, unproblematic operation.

Four hours later Mycroft's men stopped the car, arrested the driver, the elderly gentleman and the young man who occupied the back seats.

In the boot they found an unconscious Dr Watson as well as Sherlock's jacket and shirt, with the microchip in the collar still sending the signal.

Other than that, there was no trace of the younger Holmes or of Ronald Midair. Both had vanished into thin air without a trace.

Mycroft called in every favour, used all his connections. The Secret Service turned every stone in the country and found - exactly nothing.

As it turned out, the three men that had been arrested in the fateful car were actors. They had been engaged to play a bunch of rascals that molested a young woman on her wedding day, in a mock version of the continental rite of 'abducting the bride'. They had been absolutely clueless that a man had been hidden in the boot of the car rented for them by their employer.

This employer's address, his telephone number and his bank account were fakes, or had been cancelled by the time Mycroft's staff checked up on them.

As all their frantic efforts led to nothing, again and again, Tarantula came, as Anthea called it, 'apart at the seams'. He questioned John for hours on end and went mad with fury when Watson had to tell him the one thing that Mycroft didn't want to hear: That his brother had obviously lied to him. Ronald Midair and James Moriarty were one and the same. The man who had allegedly been thrown over the side of a fisher boat was very much alive.

Other than that, John had been kept in the dark – and literally so. He had come to in a room conspicuously inconspicuous. Approximately 14 m2, whitewashed walls, a bed, a chair, a table and a door without an inside handle.

The windows had been heavily barred; impossible to open them as they had no handles either. Double glass, non-transparent and very thick.

The masked men who had fed the prisoner and given him fresh clothes – cheap, ordinary things that could be bought in a shop around the corner in almost every place of the world – had hardly spoken at all. No questions answered, no threats, no hints, no nothing. A week of isolation in the completely soundproof cell and John had felt the urge to meekly thank his jailers for a stupid pocketbook novel he'd never honoured with a second glance under normal circumstances.

On the very first day John had tried to fight and run which had been the reason why he'd had to spend the next few weeks with a chain round his neck that was fastened to the wall. He had not heard or seen Moriarty after their encounter in the car.

The sedative on his last day in the cell had been in his food.

That Sherlock was alive – or had been on the day of John's release – he only learned from Mycroft.

In his pain and fear, Tarantula wasn't very tactful. He blamed John for Sherlock's disappearance and he was very frank about it.

As John was devastated enough by his own guilty conscience this wasn't very helpful. Both men lost their nerves during their last meeting and it was Anthea who avoided the ensuing physical battle by resolutely throwing John out of the office in spite of Mycroft's protests.

Alas, it wasn't much use. Mycroft was not to be persuaded to concentrate on other matters for a while. Day and night Sherlock's whereabouts and fate occupied his mind exclusively. When Anthea reminded him of the upcoming presentation of the submarine weapon system, Tarantula - otherwise an obsessed perfectionist when it came to his professional affairs - crossly ordered her to take care of that alone.

Meanwhile Sarah and Harry were more successful with a little plot of their own. Nolens volens John Watson found himself in a small guesthouse resort on the German island Rügen in the Baltic Sea. Again he was heavily guarded and found his every move and word watched but this time by two fiercely caring women, hell-bent on making him better with or without his consent.

It took him two weeks to notice that Harry drank water or apple juice, nothing else. For years he had chastised her, begged her or tried to trick her into giving up her drinking habits, without as much as a hint on success.

As he finally realized she was making a sacrifice to cheer him up he took his sister into his arms until she sobbed.

Sobbed just once, of course.

Harry being Harry, she punched his stomach immediately afterwards but there was no doubt that the message had been understood on both ends of the line.

John Watson, though still upset and grieving, appreciated it as Sarah snuggled up to him in that night. He wanted to say something that was troubling him ever since he had heard what had happened. But he gulped it down for Sarah's sake, knowing that it would spoil the moment for her.

However, her love for him made her clear-sighted and she read his thoughts. "It's hard to believe that Sherlock should give himself up to save you. He always seemed so cold and remote. Completely self-reliant, selfish even. Heartless. Now I hate myself for thinking that of him."

John buried his face in her neck. "He once told me I shouldn't see him as a hero. He said that heroes don't exist and if they did, he wouldn't be one of them."

"And yet I bow to his heroism" Sarah replied softly. Her finger caressed John's shoulder very tenderly. As usual he winced at her using the past tense but he kept silent. She took her courage in both hands. "And you have no right to spoil it for him, sweetheart. The decision was his to make and he found you worthy of the sacrifice. Even more so than his own brother. It's an obligation you must live up to, John. He bought your life with his own; you cannot throw that away by making your existence a living hell."

Watson freed himself and jumped out of the bed. "That's easy for you to say" he pressed out. Irrational enough, a tremendous anger rose in him. As if she was spitting on a friend's grave to serve her own vengeful spite.

"You once said that for all his brilliance Sherlock Holmes was a very unhappy man" she continued "Lonely. Always searching for a fulfilment that wouldn't come or if it came, it wouldn't outlive the day." She swallowed painfully. "I'm sure he _knew_ that, John. He was incomplete; the human parts of him were missing, until he met you."

Her husband stared at her, his mouth open. _What_?

His blank, defiant stare fuelled a fury inside her that matched her husband's. "Who are you, John Watson, to tell your friend what he may or may not do? He _longed_ to give his life meaning and importance! I know that in Mycroft's eyes Sherlock had no right to make his own choices. But in yours?"

Silently, John crawled back into the bed and buried himself under his blankets, turning his back on her. For long minutes nobody spoke. Sarah closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.

When John muttered something she didn't get it at first. "What did you say?"

"I said" he repeated, muffled by the layers of wool and cotton between his face and the outside world "I'll try my best to live up to the obligation but I can't make any promises. I'm not very good at regarding myself worthy of such sacrifices."

"No" she replied, stealthily wiping away some very untimely and therefore annoying tears. "You're much better at making them. Perhaps Sherlock found living with a saint a bit humbling at times. _I_ do."

That brought him into the open again. "_Humbling_?"

"Sherlock was, in his own way, a great man. All right, he was an arrogant asshole sometimes, but he wasn't a coward, he was a fighter. Yet you're so brave, so very selfless, caring, understanding – god damn it, John Watson you're so fucking perfect you'd humble divinity sometimes. Maybe Sherlock just wanted an opportunity to break even with you. Whatever it was, stop punishing yourself and anyone around you for the one occasion on which _he_ humbled _you_. Take defeat like a good sport and get on with the life he's bestowed on you."

"For your information" John grumbled after another spell of sulking silence "_he_ humbled _me_ all the time, with this 'brain the size of a planet' thing he had."

Sarah covered her face with both hands and fell back on the bed with a loud, despairing moan, so John spoke louder. "But you're right. The decision was his and I must respect that. That doesn't mean I've to like it."

"As long as you like yourself" she replied, her voice a bit shaky, "and me – a bit…. it's enough."

"I love you Sarah. More than anything in this world. It's just that I….."

"NOOOO!" Sarah darted upwards, barely avoiding knocking him out in the process. "No justs, no buts, no ifs – cut it out, John Watson, once and for all, or I'll pack my bag and you'll never see me again, I swear it!"

"Sarah, I can't help it…"

"But I _can_ help it, John. And I will. I've seen a house at the coast that's for sale, we could settle down here whenever we want. They're looking for experienced medics all over Eastern Germany."

"But London…."

"To hell with London. We wouldn't have one single happy moment there."

"Our house in Notting Hill…."

"We sell it. Houses are much cheaper here."

"I don't speak German…."

"I do. Besides, many of the guests and tourists don't either."

John saw her trembling, her breath ragged and her fists closed so hard, her knuckles were white. "It's all right, sweetheart" he said soothingly. "I like it here. Very much. It's a nice place. We can make plans in the morning, can't we? You can show me the house you found."

She knew he was handling her but she let it go, hoping that she had at least achieved a stage win. She wouldn't give up now, though. Somehow Sherlock Holmes' unhappy ghost _had_ to be destroyed and in London, where every street, every corner reminded her husband of his friend, this would never happen. Sensible, down-to-the-earth German realism facilitated much better opportunities.

She hugged her husband closely and fleetingly John thought of his wife not as a willow, as he usually did, but as a Venus Flytrap. Yet the feeling passed. She meant well. Always had and always would.

If only she didn't.

Early next morning John went for a little walk, to clear his thoughts. Somehow he had to talk Sarah out of this mad scheme but he didn't know how. Lost in his thoughts he walked on and bumped into someone. "Oh Verzeihung" he scrambled his few German words together "ich wollte…".

He looked up and his face fell.

He was staring directly into the face of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Where's your wife and sister?" the policeman asked sharply; a cordial welcoming indeed.

"In the hotel, getting ready for breakfast I guess…." John stammered, still stupefied by the unexpected encounter. Most of all because he'd been sure nobody in England knew his whereabouts.

"Good" was the clipped reply. "We're going to have breakfast too, you and I."

By the time Lestrade banged a cup of coffee and a sad looking cheese and egg sandwich – how came people here preferred crude bread with the colour of dirty rain water? - on the table of a small Turkish coffee shop, Watson had overcome his surprise and began to feel a bit annoyed. "What's the rush, Lestrade? Surely we could have a proper breakfast with Sarah and Harry."

Instead of an answer, the Inspector threw a bunch of newspapers into Watson's lap. "Did you see that?"

Now outright angry, John took the papers to hand them back as his gaze fell on the front headline of the first. "_Scandal in Whitehall_" it read. "_Mole in MI 5 unmasked?_" yelled another. "_How much for just the country, Mr. Holmes?" _headed the leading article of the third_._ And the fourth one had a very interesting lead on the front page, too. "_Bigwig felt too small for this world_."

With increasing dread, John studied the papers, until he looked at Lestrade, helplessly. "Does this mean what I think it does?"

"In a nutshell" the Inspector retorted sourly "the submarine weapon system plans Mycroft had kept safe were a fake. Someone must have stolen the real plans and replaced them with flawed plans. The cover was blown in the most harmful way, when the firm presented the plans to a group of high ranking officials from NATO and several European Defence Departments. Millions, perhaps billions are lost, together with the know-how of a very dangerous weapon system."

"And Midair?" John avoided the more obvious inquiry.

"Killed himself" Lestrade said bluntly. "Burned to death in his study on the family estate. Identification by teeth and by genetic material. No doubt possible. He left a farewell message on his homepage, saying that his cancer had returned and that he felt 'too small in a threatening world.' Hence the headline."

John didn't get it. "Moriarty is dead?"

Lestrade exhaled audibly. "_Ronald Midair_ is dead. Whoever abducted you had nothing to do with Midair. Mycroft Holmes, the star of British Intelligence, grey eminence behind Downing Street No. 10, has pestered a completely innocent man, possibly strengthened Midair's suicidal tendencies, whilst his younger brother fooled us all into believing that he'd become a crime victim, only to steal the plans from under the great Mycroft's nose."

"_Sherlock_? You say Sherlock stole the plans?" John didn't trust his hearing.

"Nobody else, not even his closest assistants, knew where Mycroft had put them. Sherlock made the exchange, staged his own abduction – again! – and passed the plans on to Moriarty. End of story." Lestrade shrugged dismissively. "Obviously you were abducted as a cover up for the real operation, nothing more." He looked at John's bland face intently. "Don't say it, I've already told myself a hundred times: Sergeant Donovan was right. One day our hero was bound to become the villain in the game."

"I don't believe it" John muttered. Then, much louder: "I don't believe it!"

"Our investigations led to that result…."

"_Fuck _your investigations! It's a lie. He'd never do that, not to his brother, not to me. _Never_!"

The Turkish landlord looked at the two men at the front table, unsure what to do. There was trouble in the air and trouble he had enough already, most of it due to the insensible, airy-fairy Germans. He decided that the men's fight wasn't his business and vanished in the back room.

Silently Lestrade reached into his pocket, took out what looked like a stack of photos and gave them to the doctor. John went through them, one by one, slowly and thoroughly, before he gave them back. "Primitive forgery! What should they tell me?"

Suddenly Lestrade's tiredness and sadness were clearly visible. "They're not fakes, John. They've been put to every possible test. No manipulations, no tricks. They're real."

John looked at the pictures which now lay on the table, shimmering in the electric light and the first rays of sun that filtered through the window. Sherlock, Moriarty's arm around his shoulders, laughing at the man who held the camera. Moriarty and Mycroft's brother together in a restaurant, obviously in high spirits. The same setting, over and over again, at a luxurious pool, in a hotel, in front of a theatre.

The pictures were dated. Each and every one had been taken during the months and years in which John Watson had thought his friend to be dead. Murdered by the man who was so obviously a closer friend to Sherlock Holmes than John Watson had ever been.

"How did you come by them?" Watson asked softly. He felt numb. Empty. Somewhere in the distance a dull pain began to throb. Given time it would come nearer to the core; it would become bigger and bigger, but right now there was only a vast nothingness.

"They were send to Mycroft the day after he'd been released from custody. Anonymously, of course." Lestrade rubbed his face with one hand, an abrupt, aggressive gesture. "Doubtlessly our dear friend James Moriarty's special idea of a fitting farewell present."

"Mycroft has been _arrested_?"

"You have no idea of the witch hunt the press has called on. The government are shaky on their legs, to put it very mildly, MPs and other bigwigs got involved. Home Office and Foreign Office are trying to cut their losses and presently it looks as if even bigger damage might be avoided. But Mycroft is done for. There will be no court case of course; otherwise too much dirty laundry would be washed in public. Sherlock has earned his big brother a shameful dismissal, on the grounds of a mental illness…."

John huffed disbelievingly. Mycroft Holmes and mentally afflicted!

"Incurable depression and manic tendencies I think it was" Lestrade continued "which result in a prolonged stay in a sanatorium and later on a permanent retirement in the country. Which brings me to the reason for my being here."

Watson looked at him, uncomprehending. It was all too much, too sudden. As if he'd went to the movies to see a film he knew by heart and suddenly found he'd ended up in some trash movie, without a clue as to where he'd taken the wrong turn .

The Inspector leaned towards Watson and spoke more softly now. "So far, Sherlock's involvement is not known to the press or to anyone else. If it _were_ publicly known, Mycroft would suffer even more. One or two journalists _have_ remembered the connection between your abduction and Ronald Midair but so far they've not traced you down. Couldn't you just stay here? I know you've got all the money you need from what Mycroft has given to Sarah on Sherlock's behalf, and surely you'd want….."

"A moment, please" John said sharply. "What was that about Mycroft giving money to Sarah?"

Lestrade sighed impatiently. "Mycroft thought Sherlock was dead, remember? You were his only friend, so he thought the inheritance should go to you. The Holmes' family fortune is a considerable one and the two brothers were to share it equally among them. Besides, there was the capital Sherlock had on his own accounts, the ones I opened for him- fool that I was!" Lestrade shrugged once more. "As soon as Mycroft gathered what was to come, he phoned me and I transferred the rest of Sherlock's money from these accounts to yours. Some 30.000 Pounds. In addition to what Sarah's got from Mycroft directly earlier, you're a wealthy man, John."

There was another short pause, then the doctor inhaled sharply. "Get out of my sight!" he said.

"You didn't _know_? Sarah didn't tell you?"

"I _said_, get out of my sight!"

"John, I'm sorry, I had no idea…."

The next instant found Detective Inspector Lestrade pressed against the wall, his chin aching terribly where apparently a steam hammer had hit it, his arm twisted almost until the shoulder came out of joint. The voice that hissed into his ear had nothing familiar. "You will leave these premises now and I'll never see you again or by God I swear you will regret it!"

It was on his way back to the ferry that should bring him back to Stralsund and the train to Berlin airport that Lestrade remembered Sherlock's 'shock talking' after the 'study in pink' had been resolved. "_A crack shot, a man accustomed to violence, probably someone with a lot of experience in military action_." Then Sherlock had interrupted himself, when his eyes had fallen on Watson standing unobtrusively in the background. "_Forget what I've said, Lestrade. It was the shock – see? I've got a blanket! Now I've to discuss the rent_!"

"The innocent looking bastard" Lestrade muttered under his breath. "Where did I have my head back then?" As he left the ferry he forced himself to look at the bright side of things. At least he now knew who had shot the serial killer with the two pills.

"_Admittedly_" he thought "_the spot is not __**very**__ bright at all_."

Truth be told, he felt like vomiting.


	10. Closing doors

**10****. Closing doors**

Sherlock folded the newspaper meticulously before he laid it away. "_John would be glad_!" The thought flitted through his mind. "_Always hated the mess I made_."

Truth be told, Sherlock needed the extra time the careful tidying gave him to control his face. The interrogation would start soon enough, and showing his feelings wouldn't do at all.

Sure enough, Moriarty lowered his own paper at once and smiled at him. "Anything interesting?" he asked innocently.

"No, not really" Sherlock replied casually, reaching for another slice of bread. As always, the breakfast table was heavily loaded with all kinds of food; continental, British or more exotic. As always the luxury was completely wasted on both occupants. Moriarty preferred opulent late dinners over breakfast and Holmes had never been much of an eater anyway, regardless of the time of day.

Nevertheless James had insisted on these lavish morning meals almost from the first day of their – what should one call it? Forced cohabitation?

In spite of all his fervent self-control Sherlock flinched when Moriarty shoved his chair back and rose. James saw it and his smile became even more affectionate. "Not even on page three or four?" he insisted. "Does that mean your brother's predicament is no longer the wonder of the world?"

Holmes shrugged. "Apparently the press have found some other pink monster to lead their headlines."

"Are you sad? I admit they ate your brother Mycroft alive, but at least you had frequent news about him."

"_Yeah, sure_" Sherlock thought, automatically remembering the first days after the media had got wind of the stolen weapon plans. "_I enjoyed every minute of Mycroft's downfall_. _My brother's whole lifework ruined because of me!_"

James frowned when Holmes kept silent. The fingertips of his right hand brushed ever so lightly against Sherlock's bare neck, enjoying the involuntary shudder the touch evoked. It wasn't sensual, just the inborn cruelty of a playful pussycat, reminding his unwilling toy of the brutal claws hidden in the velvet paw. Moriarty's somewhat purring voice perfected the picture. "If the papers don't, it falls to me as your friend to fill you in on the latest developments."

The sudden tension of Sherlock's muscles under his hand told James all he had to know. As usual he relished in his ability to play the other like a musician would play his instrument, wringing sounds or silence from it, just as he pleased. "Oh yes, I do have some news. About your brother and your Johnny-friend. Do you want to hear them?"

"Why not?"

But this time Holmes had overdone it. Little kitty was annoyed by his lack of responsiveness. "Come to think of it, I'd rather play tennis now. Or go for a swim. Jenkins can bring you back to your room. Have a nice day." The purr now had a distinctly irritated touch.

After more than three years of experience Sherlock had become quite an accomplished mouse. "I'm sorry, James. Naturally I _am_ interested in hearing your news!"

Holmes considered himself fortunate when little kitty went back to purring mode. "Mycroft has arrived on your family's estate two days ago, together with our mutual friend Lestrade. You're definitely in their bad books, my dear. The joint commiserating about evil Sherlock and his betrayal of brother, Queen and country will do Mycroft a world of good, don't you think so?"

"Yes" Sherlock managed to say. "You're right."

Moriarty was visibly having a great time. "Your friend Johnny is striving for a divorce. Poor old Sarah is quite devastated. Apparently the house in Notting Hill is for sale. Wouldn't it be fun if I bought it?"

"No!" Sherlock swallowed hard. Inwardly he cried out loud. "_Watson, you idiot. Mycroft meant well when he gave her that money. Must you now spit into his face too? Is Holmes' property so dirty that you can't be molested with it_?"

James pouted deliberately. "You're such a spoil sport sometimes, Sherlock. Anyway, Johnny is taking it hard too. He's to rejoin the army, poor fool."

Little kitty was expectant to see the effects of his teasing paw and he wasn't disappointed when an aghast Sherlock, for the first time, fully met his gaze. "John can't do that. He's been discharged for good. He's not fit for duty."

"Not all the missions our brave soldiers perform are operations under fire." James sounded perfectly sententious now. "Dr. John Watson M.D. is following a call of the British RAMC to do some teaching. In Macao!"

Sherlock saw the other's eyes glitter in the early sunlight and he knew he paled. Damn his stupid face for giving everything away. "Macao?" he said as indifferently as he could. "Whom the hell should John be lecturing there?"

"Medical personnel of the Chinese Military, no less. Some British-Chinese strategic cooperation." Calm as you please, James reached over Sherlock's shoulder to pour himself a cup of tea. "One could get some ideas from it, of course. If Watson were, let's say, looking for you. Make inquiries about Ronald Midair. What do you think I should do?"

"We had an agreement, James. I come back to you and I stay with you, as you wished. In return you leave Mycroft and John and anyone else alone. You promised!"

Moriarty twined both arms around Sherlock's neck from behind and laid his face on the other's head. "And together we had the last laugh, hadn't we" he said gushingly. "C'me on. Tell me once more what an ingenious plan I've made to rid us of them all."

"I've sung your praise often enough, James. Let go, you're becoming childish again…." Holmes fell silent when the arms pressed on his throat suddenly.

"Just once more, Sherlock. Humour me. Please!"

"No. This is ridiculous. Let go of me."

"Please, say it. Just once more!"

In vain Holmes tried to push the arms away. "I don't want to!"

"I'm going to leave today. Didn't I tell you, Sherlock? I'll be away for several weeks. If I were to tell Jenkins that you've once more decided to be a naughty boy, where would that leave you?"

Holmes' heart missed a beat and it had nothing to do with the now virtually strangling grip on his throat. "This is idiotic, James. The whole purpose of your little game was to take me with you without giving me an opportunity to run!"

"_What_ little game, Sherlock? C'me on, tell me what a genius I am. I love to hear it from you, it always makes my day!"

"All right" Holmes gave in. "If you insist." He drew a deep breath and began rattling out what James wanted to hear. "You trusted Moran no longer, so you put up a trap for him. As you'd feared he lured me into escaping with him, promising to give me the remote controls for the computer chips in Mycroft's and in my neck."

"And how did I manage to put that computer chip into the neck of the head of British Secret Service?"

"You bribed Mycroft's dentist!"

"And then? Go on, Sherlock. I do not have all day."

"When you first captured me you told me you'd have Mycroft killed if I didn't do as you say."

"That's not quite true, Sherlock. As you will remember."

Oh yes, Holmes _did_ remember. There had been a reason for implanting the second chip in _his_ neck. He could still hear Moriarty's voice. "_I'd never thought you'd cut your own throat, Sherlock. A split second later and my doctors couldn't have saved you. I now see I must get tough on you. If you prefer death over a life with me, just tell me and I'll have the chip kill you. But I'll press both buttons. You and your brother will die together. And what an awful, painful death it'll be_!"

Holmes remembered his own reply; rash, brazen, without thinking. The shock of the futile suicide attempt was still fresh. As was the pain of his injured throat. "_Go to hell. You're mad, utterly mad. What do you think I am? A goddamned stray dog you took from an asylum? A collectors' piece?_"

James had been unruffled. Then the first pictures had come to the screen opposite Holmes. Tightly roped to the bed's frame, unable to move, Sherlock watched what Moriarty's associates had filmed. Mycroft leaving his home, visiting his club, going to his office. Even one or two apparently secret meetings with the devil may know whom. Enough to make it abundantly clear to his younger brother that Moriarty had placed a mole among Tarantula's closest assistants. Otherwise this kind of surveillance would not have been possible.

But there was more. John and Sarah. Their daily lives. Every step. Harry. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade, his wife and family. And again, John and Sarah. Even their bedroom interior. With and without them.

"_I'm a consulting criminal, remember?_" Moriarty had said somewhat later. "_I've done lots of people lots of favours. And, you know, I'm not always paid in cash. Manus manum lavat, my dear. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours_."

"_I've never asked you to scratch mine_" Sherlock had retorted defiantly. And yet they both had known that the fight had been taken out of him.

"_But I've got you chained down, my dear. I can scratch whatever I like. I can do anything to anyone, anytime. My associates wait for a signal from me, every day. If this signal should be the teensiest bit delayed, just once - shall we put bets on __whose life would be lost? And don't forget – if you ever make an attempt at your own life again, you'll be your brother's murderer_!"

Moriarty's soft murmur brought Sherlock back from his reverie to the here and now. ""Go on, my dear. You ran off with Moran – how I found the strength to forgive you I'll never know – and I couldn't find you at first."

"No" Sherlock said flatly. "You couldn't. And killing someone was no use as long as you couldn't be sure that I'd be there to witness it."

"So I _made_ sure you'd know that something happened to your dear friend Johnny" James interrupted him smugly. "No paper in England would miss the headline of Mycroft investigating a man like Ronald Midair on a case of kidnapping."

Holmes nodded, almost knocking his head against James' nose in the process. "You flushed me out of hiding, forced me to contact Mycroft for more information, and Moran, whatever the costs. I needed the remote controls of both computer chips for leverage."

"If only the Colonel had been less of a fool" James chuckled good-naturedly. "If both real remote controls had come to your hands you could've given them to Mycroft, hoping that he disables them. Or you could've killed yourself without killing your brother."

"You'd not had much fun killing my friends if I'd slept through it all peacefully in my grave" Sherlock added matter-of-fact.

"No" Moriarty conceded merrily. "It was a good plan. Naturally, as it was _your_ plan. You really are the only one who's sometimes almost my equal. We were _born_ for each other, Sherlock. You belong to me, like a twin brother. I'll never let you go."

Again the arms pressed hard on Holmes' neck and shoulders.

Only this time it wasn't a threat.

The embrace expressed a desperate, obsessive affection and possessiveness that was more terrifying than any threat imaginable. These arms would never let go.

"But as it was…" Moriarty tried to help the narrative along

"..as it was" Sherlock took up the thread "you left me no choice."

"No, I guess I didn't. With both RCs still in my hands as well as your Johnny doggy I could count on you exchanging the submarine weapon plans for the fake. Afterwards I had just to wait for the scandal to flare up and then for the right moment to give your brother and friends the coup de grace by sending the photos."

Beaming from one ear to the other, James finally straightened his back and walked back to the other side of the table from where he reached for the orange juice. "And" he said with the air of a teacher examining a reluctant pupil "what was the result?"

"My brother lost his access to the Secret Service apparatus as well as his ability to call in favours from other Services. Everyone believes that I'm in league with you. They have given up searching for me. Most probably they're glad I'm gone. Should I be arrested somewhere in reach of the UK authorities, I'd be charged with Treason – if there would be public Court Procedures at all – and my brother would be incriminated even further. As a consequence, you're much safer in your bed and I have nowhere else to go."

"True enough" Moriarty exclaimed enthusiastically. "And you always put it so well. I love to hear you saying it. I'm so glad you've finally realized that we belong together. And Mycroft can no longer pester us; that's the best of it. There is, of course, your stupid Johnny…."

"You promised me to leave him alone!"

"And I will, Sherlock, truly, I will. As long as he lets me, that is. But if he comes too close….." Moriarty grinned. "You know what I do to people who come too close!"

Holmes' mouth was dry and only now he noticed that he was breathing too shallow and too fast. "How could he come too close? He's going to Macao and we are here, in …."

"In Berlin" James completed the other's sentence. "My favourite place, my aunt's old villa in Grunewald. But as I said, I'm to go on a little business trip. And guess where?"

Sherlock did his best to keep his voice calm, not agitated. "What would you want in Macao? Midair is officially dead. It was crucial to your plan that everybody thinks he died in his house in Kent."

Moriarty leaned back into his seat and scrutinized his counterpart. "I've not told you everything about the 'Midair operation'; I've only given you some hints. C'me on, Master Detective. Use your loaf. Fill in the gaps and you'll know what I'm going to do in Macao."

Holmes closed his eyes briefly. This kind of teasing he hated most. James wasn't subtle, he _wanted_ his favourite toy to know that he was handled – again.

And yet, although he knew that Moriarty was manipulating him, Sherlock felt the old, familiar thrill growing inside him.

Naturally it was all part of the never-ending game James liked to play.

From the very first moment of his captivity, Moriarty had used Sherlock's own singular nature as a weapon against him, and it had worked a treat.

Weeks on end Holmes had been locked up in a tiny room. No natural light or air supply. Sound proof. Light intensity, air pressure or background sounds – all was at the disposal of Moriarty's henchmen. Sensorial deprivation, extreme solitude, sleep deprivation and, more than anything else, boredom had brought Holmes to his knees faster than he'd ever thought possible. Humiliatingly fast.

Oh, naturally he had screamed abuses; he had fought and struggled, he had refused all cooperation.

However, Moriarty always had the perfect counter move ready. If Sherlock screamed he would be gagged, if he risked hurting himself he'd be tied up and if he refused the food given to him – well, there were means to make him eat which he didn't like to remember.

There was no way out of the silent torture chamber but by James' pleasure.

Finally Sherlock had begged to be let out. He'd promised anything for one day outside the whitewashed concrete hell-hole and they both knew it.

No other instruments of torture had been necessary. Moriarty had been untypically patient and in the end, the mere threat of being locked up in that room again had brought his prisoner to heel.

But then James' aspirations had aimed higher. He wanted to go out, with his latest achievement at his side. As if Sherlock was a beautiful woman or a prize item James had wanted to show him around, to parade him in front of his 'friends' or business partners.

As it turned out, Moriarty suffered from what Sherlock had once called the weakness of the genius.

James slept with a lot of different women, and most of the time his money or power didn't come into it. Fascinated Sherlock had watched women fall for the psychopath, do anything for him.

Not once in all the years Moriarty had made a sexual approach towards his prisoner. Oh no, what Jim-from-the-hospital needed was not another adornment for his bed but an audience. Alas, not any audience would do. It had to be an audience on his own level. An audience able to truly appreciate what he was capable of doing. None of his playmates met the requirements.

Only Sherlock did.

Over the years, Moriarty became more and more addicted to the audience he had created for himself. As if Sherlock was his magic mirror which the self-styled criminal genius needed in order to survive. Sometimes, absurdly, Holmes imagined hearing the old child's rhyme "_mirror, mirror on the wall - who's the brightest of them all_?"

At long last, 'the room', as it was called, wasn't enough to keep the living mirror in line with James' wishes. It brought the captive to the brink of death but not to his captor's side.

Moriarty was very relieved when the computer chips and the surveillance videos finally did the trick.

Without any perspective other than to make the best of the circumstances forced on him, Sherlock had not only obediently accepted the outings or social events to which James had dragged him along.

More than anything else it had been the deprivation of work that, in the long run, compromised Sherlock's will to withstand Moriarty's siren song.

On more than one occasion he'd yielded when James had asked him to go over a new plan or criminal scheme. Often enough Sherlock had found a hidden flaw in the plan or otherwise helped to improve a scheme for Moriarty's organisation.

Holmes had never been proud of that. In fact it was part of James' fun in the game that his reluctant helpmate would feel real remorse about his cooperation and yet temptation to whet his own mind on that of his captor would overcome his resistance, time and again.

As it did now.

Sherlock _had_ racked his brain about what James had just called 'the gaps' and he _had_ come to some conclusions. And, although disgusted with himself, he burned to let it all out. "My guess is" he began "that Midair never made it out of the clinic in Macao alive."

"It depends on how you define 'alive'" James replied, looking very pleased with himself and his master pupil. "His cancer was incurable. He took part in an illegal experiment with cryogenics. He wanted to 'hibernate' until science had brought about a cure."

"He came to your organisation for help and you took the opportunity. You took his place."

"Correct. A little make up, a wig and – voila! After all, people knew that his face had been eaten away by cancer. So I had an industrial empire at my hands, as well as his most valuable connections to the highest ranks of society, continental, British or from the other side of the Great Water." James chuckled. "Believe me, his name opened doors not even I could've dreamed of before that."

Sherlock cocked a brow. "Never had clients from that ranks?"

"Lots" Moriarty grinned viciously. "But I always had them pay by cash. They're difficult to handle via blackmail. People who've worked for their brass are easier to impress. They know how deep they can fall. Besides…." he shrugged "some people from the higher level, the level where you inherit your lot, are too stupid or narrow minded for my purposes."

"So you had Ronald taken out of the clinic, thawed and then burned when it suited your purposes" Sherlock stated. "I must say, I've cost you a fortune over the years. 30 million quit just for the game with the faked Vermeer, the Janus company…. And your reputation suffered when your client, that Ramon Santos or what's-his-name was arrested. Now you've given up the the Midair fortune….I'm flattered."

"So you should be. But by the costs of the Great Game and of your original abduction, not by the Midair fortune. You see, I never gave it up!"

Sherlock looked into his teacup thoughtfully. Inwardly he was all tensed up. The hound dog had licked blood. "I take it Ronald left a last will and testament?"

"Correct."

"Leaving all his money and estates and everything else to a foundation or something like that?"

"You're coming closer."

"The chairman of this foundation is a young man, a close acquaintance of Midair's, a man with dark eyes, dark hair, middle height…

"Ouch" Moriarty chimed in, with a grimace of mock hurt.

"….whom Ronald first met in the clinic in Macao and made his confidant?"

"Quite right!"

"So you're going to Macao as your own self, claiming the inheritance you've left to you?"

"Ingenious, isn't it?" James said. The happy smile wrinkled his nose and he sniffed a bit. All in all he looked unbelievably endearing, like a charming child that has been praised by his most adored teacher.

"Which still leaves you with the loss of the profit from the submarine weapons' system" Holmes said with an audible nastiness for which he despised himself. "After all Ronald Midair held, at the time of his death, a majority of shares in the weapon firm that had originally developed the weapon system; you'd sold the other firm's shares just in time. You must have lost a fortune."

You're sure?" Moriarty retorted softly

"The firm must have lost millions when the deal was called off." Sherlock sounded very surprised "unless..."

"Unless?" James encouraged him

"Unless the original plans were also flawed! Mycroft's plans were worthless, too!"

"The candidate has earned 99 points" Moriarty said with mild irony. He enjoyed letting Sherlock have a little victory from time to time, but only as long as the final laugh was his.

Holmes trespassed this line sometimes; but always at his peril. Which was the reason why Sherlock acted as if he hadn't figured out weeks ago what James was about to tell him only now. "You see my dear, the damn system never worked. The fakes you placed in Mycroft's safe were actually copies of the original plans. I just made sure that, under closer examination, the _box_ would be found out as a substitute. Thereby everyone would think that the original plans were fine and that the firm had indeed developed a marvellously efficient new weapon. Naturally the deal would be called off as security had been compromised. But the firm still enjoys general trust."

"Whilst otherwise" Sherlock feigned only slowly dawning realization "it would've been bankrupt."

"Inevitably" Moriarty confirmed. "Almost one billion $ from public research funds alone. Tax payers' money from Germany, the UK, the US, France. Two other submarine deals coming up with one state or the other – even without the repayment of the research money, the loss in trust and reputation alone would've finished the enterprise off."

"As the loss of trust and reputation has finished off Mycroft!" Sherlock bit his lip only afterwards. Damn his quick tongue.

"An additional goodie for me, especially as he fell because you helped me pushing him." Moriarty bowed slightly in his chair. "But that aside - there was profit on both ends and for both firms. You see, they both were my clients. The one firm failed to develop a working system and when they were too stupid to steal the necessary know-how, they came to me. I found out that the system would never work, not for the original developer, not for anybody else. Unfortunately, both firms had already made big promises to some irritable customers..."

"And the plans' alleged theft from Mycroft's office brought them both off the hook" Sherlock said. "Ingenious."

"Isn't it" Moriarty grinned. "James Moriarty accepted a most gracious fee for services rendered and the Midair fortune still helds some very valuable shares." He clapped his hands, applauding himself. "It's therefore elementary, dear Sherlock, that the Viscount of Premridge Foundation for Cancer Research will take possession of the Midair fortune as soon as possible." Apparently pensive, James sipped his orange juice. "Naturally I'll not travel by the name of James Moriarty. We must no longer fear Mycroft's ever watchful eyes and yet - Mortimer Harrungate would do, don't you think?"

For once Moriarty's volubility had come to Holmes' aid. It had given him time to control his temper. "Ridiculous name" he said conversationally. "Never liked it."

"Yes, but I hardly ever used it so far. The passport is as white as snow. And its former proprietor has a record of visa for Macao. That's why I, as Ronald, made dear Mortimer my heir."

"No inclination to tell me what has become of the real Mortimer?"

Already on his way out, James slapped Sherlock's back fondly. "One day I will. He lived here for a few years, which makes this identity even more appropriate for any operation that has Berlin as a starting point. Sorry Sherlock, I must dash. I haven't even packed yet."

Holmes knew how beggarly he sounded and he felt wretched when he asked nevertheless "what about me?"

"Oh, that" James replied lightly. "Well, naturally I'm devastated that I must leave you behind. I've been looking forward to roaming the streets of Macao with you. But, you see, with your friend Johnny in town, I can't risk it. I'm so sorry."

"_No_" Sherlock thought "_you're not._"

And indeed James was all merriment under his feigned regret when he added "I've already given Jenkins his instructions. As long as you behave sensibly he won't make this unnecessarily hard on you."

Again, he walked back to the table to lay a comforting hand on Holmes' shoulder. "And please, my dear - don't get bored! You know what boredom does to you."


	11. Breathing in a vacuum

**11. Breathing in a vacuum**

Dreading what was to come, Sherlock paced about nervously from room to room, as if the constant movement could hide the fact that - for him - this splendid place was nothing but a cage.

From the very first moment the house had had a peculiar effect on him, partly soothing, partly terrifying.

The antique villa was a marvel in itself but to Holmes it was also unreal, a magic place from a fairy tale. When he'd been brought here he'd walked through a mirror into a different kind of world.

It had been a long journey from the place in France where he'd been held so far to the German coast and then southwards, until he and his three guards had arrived in a very spacious, very expensive garage. A quick look around found a spotless room, the best toolkits money can buy. Two other cars, one a Rolls Royce, looked a bit forlorn in the huge emptiness of what could well have been a very rich man's coach house once, in former times.

A bound and gagged Sherlock had been released from the car-boot and left to the care of a not very tall and rather skinny, elderly man in a ridiculously old-fashioned butler's suit who – unbelievably – bowed slightly. "Mr. Moriarty is expecting you, Sir!"

It had been Holmes' first encounter with James' butler and, if there was such a thing in this world, close confidant Michael Jenkins. In perfect style the butler had led the newcomer towards the house, as if the arrival of an unknown prisoner was part of his daily routine.

They'd walked through a paned walkway, a combination of art nouveau and 19th century ironworks. The huge but elegant villa, already in sight, was old but by no means derelict.

It had been a very fine day. While they walked Sherlock could see the vast, lush gardens outside, the evening sunlight gleaming and sparkling in the rain drops left behind by a recent summer storm. No outer wall visible, no sounds from a street; the house – the _palace_, as Sherlock thought ironically – could have been on an alien planet.

Back then Holmes had cursed himself for having declined his jailers' offer to let him sit in the car's fond 'if he behaved'. His stubborn refusal 'to behave' had earned him a lost chance to watch the route they took. He could be everywhere between the German coast and the enchanted lands for all he knew.

Today, three years later, Sherlock snorted despairingly. He knew perfectly well where he was by now, as James had taken him out to various places in the German capital, many times. The 'Harrungate brothers' were quite a catch for the parties of some people of well-to-do Berlin.

But wherever they went, in the end they'd come back here, to James Moriarty's personal fantasy world. Headquarter of an international criminal empire, a boy's Barbie doll playhouse and a madman's personal zoo, a one man exhibition, a true and most impressive piece of art as well as an evil sorcerer's enchanted castle – this estate had more facets than some diamonds Holmes had seen in his life. The most frightening facet of all was visible only when Sherlock caught himself thinking of the place as 'home'.

Back on the first day Jenkins had freed Holmes from his bonds as if it was the most natural service in the world. "Mr. Moriarty awaits you in the living room, Sir!"

Sherlock couldn't remember why he hadn't even thought of escape. Curiosity? Or a morbid fascination? Whatever the reason, he had just followed the butler.

The first impression of the villa's interior had been overwhelming.

Somehow Holmes had always assumed that Moriarty's private surroundings would be pompous, showy. A paramount of bad taste. Quite the presumptuous parvenu's testimony to the world.

Instead the furnishings of hall and living room were a piece of art. Exquisitely beautiful; everything spoke of the composer's love for detail.

"_Oh but for the things money can buy_" Sherlock thought, reciting a frequent saying of his brother.

Wherever Holmes looked, he saw utter, unimaginable perfection. Nothing vulgar. Nothing out of place. No colour mismatched; no souvenirs, no personal items. The mere thought of a tourist cap saying "I love Germany" or a plastic ashtray was monstrous, out of the question.

The whole eastern wall of the living room was taken by bookshelves, especially designed and measured-to-size for this place.

Somehow the endless, silent rows of books had put Sherlock off. Even after three years, they still did.

They emanated a subtle threat, like a Mene-Mene. Dozens and dozens of them filled the shelves, clad in similar, matching leather bindings. They were anonymous, neither author nor title were shown on their backs, just numbers.

Sherlock had a vision of how these books had been bought and brought to the bookbinder where they'd lost their individuality for ever. They'd become parts of a collection in which variance wasn't an option.

As had anything else in this house.

The notebook on the antique desk by the window, the wireless phone on a small matching table on the other side – designed to match the room, the marvellous composition of furniture, carpet, shawls, cushions and everything else. One brain had formed it all. An eye for beauty and a will made of steel, no exceptions allowed, nothing in here was allowed to march to a different drummer.

No dust, no creaks, no scratches – a nightmarish impression for a professed messy like Holmes. That so much beauty could be so very sterile – Sherlock would've thought it impossible. As if a mere mortal had successfully undertaken an act of divine creation – but this Pygmalion's statue would never be alive.

Naturally the fairy's castle didn't end at the living room's doorstep. A symphony of light colours, cream, silver, light blue, peach and others - it went on and on, every part of the house was decorated in the style of a different era but with the same perfection and soulless beauty everywhere.

The only imperfection had been in the centre of it all – James Moriarty sprawling on a couch, in Jeans and a cheap T-Shirt. Gone was the nellie voice, the mad behaviour. The criminal sounded and moved perfectly normal – like a host, anxious to please a very particular guest.

Holmes had been overwrought, tired and, although he hid it to perfection, truly scared. But even so Moriarty couldn't fool him.

The man was nervous, insecure. His composure was – a fraud. A deliberate and not very convincing attempt at seeming completely relaxed and master of the situation.

"Welcome, Sherlock. Welcome in our new home! What do you think? Do you like it?" Moriarty smiled agitatedly. "How good of you to come" he added and Sherlock marvelled at the fact that the man quite obviously meant every word he said.

"What's this going to be, Moriarty? Your personal version of The Rocky Horror Picture Show or what?"

"It's not to your liking? The smile seemed to fall from James' face; Sherlock imagined he could hear it hitting the floor with a thud. "You think it's ugly? You do not want to stay here?"

"I was dragged here against my will; naturally I do not want to stay!" In hindsight Sherlock found his own naïveté almost hilarious. But back then and there his instinct had warned him not to increase the tension in his captor. Accusations had never been helpful when dealing with the madman.

Back in France Moriarty and his helpmates had not been choosy in their methods and Holmes' body sported some serious bruises as living proof. Additional, perhaps hampering injuries wouldn't help much, so Sherlock forced himself to relax. "Besides, Germany was never my first choice for a vacation anyway" he added. "The weather is too British!"

The joke was a lame one to say the very least but it did the trick. Moriarty grinned, obviously relieved, and shook his head. "Why care about the weather? You'll like it here in the end, you'll see. This is now your home!"

"This is _not_ my home, and you are not my friend or relative. So why am I here?"

"Oh Sherlock, isn't it obvious? I've decided that I need a friend, a soulmate and you are the one. Look around you, at what I have to offer. And there's more where that's coming from. You want something? You name it and you'll get it. Whatever money can buy I'll give you, and more. Just say the word."

For a second the sheer absurdity had rendered Sherlock speechless. The man couldn't be serious. Such…. baroque ideas didn't exist in these times. This was real life, not a remake of a 19th century novel.

"Listen, Moriarty…." he finally began.

"James, please" the man put in hastily.

"All right then, James" Sherlock had said resignedly. His head was swimming and he was so very tired. The weeks spend as a hostage had taken their toll; suddenly he wanted this to _end_, no matter how. "This is supposed to be reality, neither of us is a character from a story by Edgar Allan Poe. Just tell me what you really want."

"I'm sorry I had to leave you behind for so long. I know your stay in France was not… pleasant." Moriarty said softly, patiently "But look, I've had the house refurnished. Building works, new installations, especially for you."

Despite his best intentions Sherlock yelled in frustration. "Whatever for? What the hell do you want?"

"At first I wasn't sure about us. I was all willing for this to work from the very start. But you were so... rejecting, you pushed me away. You were quarrelsome. You insulted me every time I spoke to you. You even tried to run away. I _suffered_ when you forced me to punish you. But now, in these new surroundings, we can begin anew."

"I've had enough of this nonsense." On impulse, Sherlock had turned and walked away, towards the exit, if only to provoke some decisive action from the other, something that gave him a clue as to what this was really about.

He didn't have to wait.

Jenkins shouted a command in German and two of the henchmen dashed into the room.

Holmes stood his ground much better than he'd expected. Despite their muscles none of them was a match for him in unarmed combat.

In the end it was the small tranquillizer handgun which James had been hiding that brought Sherlock down. He had come round only to see one of James' special installations first hand.

Sherlock's first day in 'the room' was not a memory one could easily put behind oneself.

Now, remembering his first weeks and months here, Holmes unknowingly touched his throat when he thought of what had happened later on.

For example, when, after an especially heated verbal duel via the two-way intercom, James had decided that it was time for another 'lesson'.

Moriarty had been creative, Holmes granted him that. He'd come up with a special gag for his captive, soaked in a chemical that worked like highly concentrated chilli pepper.

Absolutely convinced that he was going to suffocate any moment Sherlock had screamed and struggled against his bonds under the gruesome pain. All the time James' patient voice had told him to calm down, to breathe regularly. And, of course, his usual aphorism: "_It's hurting me more than you, Sherlock_!_ But you must learn to observe your limits._"

When the constant torment had finally done its work, James had looked like a child facing a Christmas tree. His wide, joy-filled eyes had showed no cruelty, no wrath. Saint Nicolas had fulfilled his dearest wish.

Sherlock had got one day to recover from his experiences in the white-washed torture chamber. After that, Moriarty had considered his 'soulmate' fit for every enjoyment he fancied. "Do you feel better now? Say that you do!" The voice had been gentle, eager. Full of warmth and a genuine affection that made Holmes' hairs stand up.

"Yes" Sherlock had answered, knowing that he was in no state to argue and yet unable to refrain from adding "if that is what you want?"

"Naturally it's what I want" Moriarty had retorted irritably. "I always want you to be happy. After all I _do_ love you, more than anyone in this world." Briefly voice and face had become stern. Demanding. "I cannot live without you! You're like my twin brother. Forget Mycroft, you belong to me!"

Sherlock had thought of the books in the living room. The paintings. The sculptures and the furniture. Collector's items, each and every one of them. Dead Butterflies, spiked in a gallery with only one human cockchafer spiked alive. "All right, James. What do you want to do?"

Moriarty had been enthused, quite over the moon. He never tired of babbling pleasantries; the demon inside him had been concealed by silky words and impeccable politeness.

It had went on like that, with a rosy-cosy world of 'friendship' and 'closeness' as long as Holmes played along with the fantasy of the day and a living hell if he did not.

Sherlock felt the shame of this life, the degradation. He'd been beaten so effortlessly.

He had even destroyed his elder brother just because he was too weak to see Mycroft die.

Sherlock knew his elder brother. Sarcastic, cynic, apparently emotionless Mycroft Holmes, always joking about soldiers or bravery or honour, would've preferred an honourable death to professional scandal and humiliation any time. It was silly, it was childish, it was pitifully old-fashioned but it was Mycroft Holmes' view on the world and he had a right to see it respected, at least by his own brother.

Instead Sherlock had treated it with utmost contempt.

As a result Holmes hated himself with an increasing fury that outshone his hatred for his captor.

If he were anything close to the brilliant genius he'd thought himself to be he'd found a solution for his predicament. But as Moriarty had said, he was a fake. Sherlock Holmes was really an imbecile, a half-wit without any claim to brilliance.

As living proof for that, he was still here, three years after his first arrival. Just waiting for his master's orders, like an obedient dog.

"I beg your pardon, Sir. It's time." Jenkins' voice startled Sherlock and he came back from his memories to the presence. Silently he turned on his heel and followed the butler's inviting gesture.

It was an iron rule: As soon as James left the house without him, Sherlock would be confined in his quarters and he wouldn't leave them until Moriarty was back.

It had nothing to do with punishment or security. Moriarty just craved for a warm welcome on his returns and that was his way to ensure that he'd get one. James also reckoned that, with a luxury version of solitary confinement for an alternative, Sherlock would acquire a liking for accompanying him and with that he was also right.

Sometimes, when left behind, Sherlock could have books – by nature anything but a booklover he'd become a real reader since he'd come here – but otherwise he'd be left to himself.

And idle.

"_Please, my dear. Don't get bored. You know what boredom does to you_!"

Indeed!

Holmes reached the loathed door and the familiar feelings were back in a rush. The faint nausea, the pressure on his stomach and chest. The upcoming headache. The jumpiness. Every sound made him nervous, uncomfortably alert.

Sherlock could've written a paper on the psychosomatic effects of continuous claustrophobic anxiety.

"The master said he'd be away for at least six weeks" Jenkins said. He scrutinized Sherlock's pale face with acute satisfaction. "I recommend you to make the best of it, Sir. No use forcing my hand, so to say. There are, after all, accommodations in this house you detest even more than your quarters."

"_One day_" Sherlock thought. "_One day I'll get you, you bastard_!"

Something of his intense vengeful wrath must have been visible, as Jenkins stepped back in haste, behind the wide open door. "What are you waiting for? You know the drill."

Once inside, Holmes heard the key turn in the lock and the bolts snap into place.

_Six_ weeks. 42 endlessly dragged out days. God help me.

Outside Jenkins hurried downstairs to James' own room where he found his master in the last stages of packing. "You know Michael, one day someone will ask why I've to pack my own luggage."

"Let me" the butler replied calmly.

With a content smile, James hopped on the nearest couch and, sitting comfortably cross-legged, watched the other do the rest of the packing. Methodically but with a frown that deepened with every item he stuffed away.

"What's the bother, Michael? What's crawled up your ass and died?"

"Your prisoner! That's what."

"What about him?"

"He's done wonders for you, James. You feel much better since he's around. You work, you sleep – it's a miracle. But during these three months he was gone, off with Moran, you were…"

"I do not wish to speak about it!" Moriarty growled. "You know that."

Jenkins didn't reply to that.

Moriarty sighed and hopped off his seat. "He won't do it again. He can't."

The butler let the shirt fall he'd just been packing and turned towards his employer. "Holmes is especially bright and he's determined to fight. He's vanished once; he could do it again, any time. As long as he avoids 'the room', none of your precautions are invincible. If you're in the house, he's not even guarded properly."

"Why should he run? One pull on the leash and the prodigal boy would come back, meek and with his tail between his legs. I've tamed him."

"He's as tame as an injured tiger!"

"Sherlock thought he's invulnerable because he didn't want to care about people. But he _does_ care. Deeply. Mycroft, John _and_ the people _they_ value – they're like chains that hold him down." Fondly Moriarty slapped the other on the back. "Besides, I've made a career out of riding a tiger!"

"This time you've caged one!"

"Three years and he's still here. What's that for a success, old man?"

"I just say…."

"What? Spit it out, man."

"Are you sure, really sure, that his friends and brother have given up on him?"

"Positively. Couldn't stand the sight of him."

"It's just that – James, this latest scheme of the Americans, your business partners from that damned weapons' firm – wouldn't it be exactly what your tiger's brother would conjure up to lure you into a trap?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "You're a worrier, you really are. The firm has lost money, lots of it. They just want to reduce their losses."

"Without you and your ingenious scheme they'd lost _everything_. Now they're compromising you, and your safety! It's what MI 6 would do. You said so yourself, you _had_ to rid yourself of Mycroft Holmes."

"And I have, for good. Besides, the Americans bought a plan to save their asses, for 30 Mio. Pounds quit. I needed the money. I've been resting for too long and this house alone has cost a King's ransom."

"As has your so called soulmate upstairs!"

James ignored the interruption "What the Americans do from here is no business of mine. Now that they're afloat again they swim on their own. End of story."

"You're going to Macao to claim the Midair fortune, James. Anyone will think the two deals are related if only because of these damned shares in the firm. It's the majority after all."

"Okay, okay. As soon as I'm in charge of the inheritance I'll sell those shares, all of them. A decent charity organisation like the Viscount of Premridge Foundation for Cancer Research cannot own a weapon factory anyway. Satisfied?"

"There is one other thing…."

"What?" Moriarty was definitely exhausted by now.

"Our guest's doctor-friend…."

"Watson. Good old Johnny-doggy. What of him?"

"You're not thinking of bringing him here, James, are you?"

"Heavens, no. Not if I can avoid it."

"What do you mean, perhaps you can't avoid it."

"If he's too nosy and presumptuous I'll have to do something about it. And I can hardly kill him. My tiger would roar and you'd fall out of your bed. I cannot answer for that."

"James, don't…."

"No, old man. Not another word. I know what I'm doing. Now give me that." Moriarty grabbed his bags and went out, Jenkins in his wake.

Just before they reached the main entrance, the butler suddenly hugged his master fiercely and James, unabashedly, returned the hug. "Try not to worry too much, old man. And tickle my tiger's chin from time to time before he gets crazy. Good-bye."

The old man watched him drive away and shook his head. "Take care, my Jimmy" he whispered. "Please, take care!"


	12. Fall from heaven

**1****2. Fall from heaven**

Sherlock was grateful when he managed to 'fall through the hole'. He'd read the phrase once, in a horror story about an kidnapped author, who, forced at gunpoint to write a novel, found his only respite in concentrating solely on his story, deliberately shunning the outside world until he could forget it for a few precious hours.

Although he'd found the sentiment idiotic at the time, the biography of Sir Francis Walsingham did the same for Holmes now – take him away from these walls, this place, these people, if only for the time being. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the book was one of Mycroft's favourites.

Indeed Holmes was so absorbed in the spy master's machinations and tribulations that he almost overheard the door being unlocked. And why not? It would be Jenkins with a few gloating jibes and a platter with food Sherlock could well have done without. Not an event to revel in, not even on day 60 of his confinement.

However, today the factotum didn't bring lunching. "Get up. Now!" And a flabbergasted Holmes found himself grabbed by two of Moriarty's 'private guards' who forced him on his feet and twisted his arms behind his back. Sherlock only struggled when he smelled the chloroform, but by then it was too late.

He awoke with a terrible headache, disoriented and still shaken from the sudden attack but the sounds were unmistakable: He was in a plane. Why was he suddenly in a plane?

"Sorry for the rough wake-up call, my dear. Michael was a bit overzealous."

"James" Sherlock managed to get out "you're back."

"We both are back. Or will be in an hour or so. Back to good old England."

This took the last of the sedative's cobwebs from Sherlock's mind. "_What_?"

"You and me, we're going to spend some time on the outskirts of London for a change. Some months, at least. Aren't you looking forward to it? Here, let me help you." The later referred to Sherlock's attempt at sitting up although his hands were cuffed behind his back and he was strapped to the flapped down seat.

"Is restraining me meant to be the beginning of the fun?" Belatedly the captive realized his counterpart's dishevelled state. Moriarty looked a mess, tired, exhausted actually, and distraught when he answered. "Sorry for that, too. It'll keep you out of mischief and I take it you're not interested in another dose of sedative before we arrive."

"But afterwards?" Holmes asked sarcastically.

Moriarty smiled with genuine regret "It can't be helped; you're to play the unconscious patient again and perhaps you'd not cooperate voluntarily. So the needle it'll be, as much as I deplore it."

Sherlock forced himself to sound calm and reasonable although the perspective of being brought to England made his head reel. "There's no need for that, remember? I said I won't run and I won't fight as long as you keep your side of the bargain. Where are you taking me?"

"I wasn't kidding when I said we're going to England. Some surgery, a few weeks of convalescing, new passports for our new faces and we can start afresh. Some place nice. How do you like the Caribbean?"

"You can't be serious!"

"Don't be such a girl, Sherlock. It won't hurt that much. And you're going to like your new face, I promise."

Instinctively Holmes tried to get up, but Moriarty gently pressed him back on his seat. "No use struggling. You'll hurt yourself for nothing."

Insidious, sickening fear crept up Sherlock's throat. He'd known from day one that Moriarty wasn't sane, that his fiendish appetites and desires were more than the emanations of a selfish and greedy character. Some psychotic, lunatic alter ego was hovering behind this brilliant mind, biding its time. Some Frankenstein scheme to demonstrate his absolute power over his prisoner – it was well up this alter ego's street. "James, please. Can't you at least tell me what this is about? Why are you doing this to me?" Holmes didn't dare pushing the man further by voicing his suspicions: "_What went wrong in Macao? Who's scared you out of your wits_?"

"I'm doing this to both of us, my dear. Even Michael has to undergo surgery." In a weary, defeated gesture so uncharacteristically for him that it brought a shiver down Sherlock's spine, James rubbed his forehead. "Give me your word to keep this to yourself!"

"Keep what?"

"I'm done for, Sherlock. My fortune, my possessions –gone, most of it. Poof! Just like that!" He threw his hands up to indicate a dispersing cloud of smoke. "I'm a man on the run. From the big, big monster that wants to devour me. Devour _us_. You can't leave me now, I _need_ you." James' voice was small, fearful, his dark eyes wide and shining. "You _will_ stay with me, Sherlock. You must!"

"I will. I won't leave you, I promise. Just tell me what happened."

"These Americans – they gambled for the highest stakes possible and they lost. They wanted to make some money from these mishappened plans you see. They sold those useless, stupid weapon system plans to North Korea. Or so they thought." James chuckled hysterically. "Can this amount of idiocy be possible? They thought who cares about North Korea, if they want to spend a real fortune on some scribbled nonsense, why not? Only that it wasn't North Korea who lost her face. No, it wasn't North Korea at all."

James laughed even harder; tears streamed down his cheeks, he couldn't restrain himself. "Imagine the scene, Sherlock, the drama it must've been. This high ranking Chinese Secret Service bigwig, the boss of the whole military intelligence department, takes a King's ransom from the public budget; most solemnly and proudly presents those shitty good-for-nothing papers to his superiors in Beijing and makes a fucking asshole of himself in front of the whole goddamned Central Committee. Christ almighty, it must've been the sight of a lifetime, the man's face in the moment he realized he'd lost it."

Sherlock whistled sharply under his breath. Christ almighty, indeed. "They don't like losing their faces" he said. "Especially not like that. How come you know so much about it?"

"My American friends tried to save their dirty, worthless skins by naming and shaming _me_ as the man behind the deal. And my, the Chinese are well connected nowadays. Took them 24 hours to wipe clear or lock up most of my bank accounts, at least those for which they knew the aliases. Unfortunately that included the whole, bloody Midair fortune as well as the 30 million Pounds I had in one of the other Macao accounts."

Sherlock couldn't have cared less. Apparently there was still enough money left to pay for this little health cure trip to London!

"And you know what?" James rattled on "they set every bloody secret service on me they could think of. Even the German BND owes them a favour or two. Twelve years Mortimer Harrungate had that house in Berlin, twelve years he's been a hard-working, law-abiding, tax-paying citizen of the Federal Republic of Germany by all accounts and suddenly they hunt me down like some poisonous vermin!"

Moriarty's fist hit the armrest. "After I'd been tipped-off I had hardly time to get away from Macao, contact Michael and arrange our little vacation in the UK. They were that hot on my heels, I thought I could hear them breathing down my neck."

In Sherlock's belly was an empty, hurting hole. "Who tipped you off? Who got you out of Macao?"

For the first time ever Sherlock saw the criminal blush. James fingered the seat nervously. "What does it matter? It changes nothing."

"Damn you, who warned you?"

"Well, if you must know, it was Watson. Obviously your brother is not as dead a cat as I thought. It must have been Mycroft who got wind of the Chinese scheme to get me, contacted your doctor-friend who in turn came to me. End of story."

Sherlock was winded. His headache was back with a vengeance and he felt sick to the bone. "Your American friends knew that I stole the plans from my brother's office!" It wasn't really a question. "They blamed me, too."

"Well, yes" Moriarty replied, quite uncomfortably. Clumsily he poked Sherlock's ribs with his elbow. "Seems old Mycroft couldn't stand the idea of his Chinese colleagues hunting _you_ down. He _is_ convinced we are in this together!"

"What did you tell John?"

"About you?"

"Yes, about me."

"Well, that you're well and happy, of course. Gave him your regards and said what a hell of a team we are. No sense in keeping my mouth shut in that situation. I told him about all those fine schemes we worked out together. What a shame if a man like Sherlock Holmes would end up in a Chinese prison camp. Or face an execution squad."

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cold window. James talked and talked, as if a dike had been cut open, but Holmes no longer listened. "_Mycroft, I was so sure you'd hate me now."_

Suddenly Holmes darted upwards as far as the restraints would allow. "Did you contact your associates?" he blurted, ruthlessly cutting James' sermon short.

"You mean the ones who have the remote control for Mycroft's chip?" James grinned happily. "I have. What do you take me for? Can't let your brother die so horribly after what he's done for me. That is…" his fingers stroked lazily about Sherlock's shirt collar "… as long as you do not forget your manners and obligations to me."

It took a load off Holmes' mind and for the rest of the flight he kept silent, dreaming himself away as he'd learned to do.

On their landing he saw an ambulance waiting by the runway. As always, everything was meticulously planned and arranged. Under different circumstances the one big blunder would have been a good laugh. James Moriarty, the fusspot, the opsimath, lost almost everything because he'd trusted a few dumb-asses in Detroit with a few details too many about a plan.

As the plane slowly came to a halt, the doctors left the ambulance. One of them, a not very tall, lean man with blonde hair looked at the approaching machine.

Sherlock strained against his bonds with all his might "JOHN!"

Holmes fought Jenkins' hand on his mouth until the injection took effect and he knew no more.

"You shouldn't have wakened him" the 'butler' said nervously. "Why tell him everything? And whose idea was it to have his friend here?"

"It was Watson's idea. I had no say in the matter, as he arranged for my flight from Macao to Brussels once he'd warned me. He insisted on being here for the surgery and I had no a chance to make other arrangements."

Jenkins clearly wasn't satisfied as he freed Sherlock's hands. "What will you do to keep them apart? Keep them from talking to each other? This is madness, Jim, plain barmy."

"Holmes will guard his tongue, with or without me sitting by his side. He fears far too much for his brother's life. Besides, Watson thinks Sherlock's become my partner, willingly and for that the good doctor loathes him. I know our dear tiger, old man. As I've made him a villain, he'll _be_ a villain. He's got Satan's own pride; he'd never degrade himself by apologies, justifications or any attempt to arouse pity."

Jenkins took his master/friend's arm. "Leave him behind, Jim. I beg you, let they have him back. He's all they want. Let him go and the British will kick you out of the country with a new identity, a fresh chance, no questions asked. I'm sure of it. Please, James."

For a second Moriarty hesitated, looking down on Sherlock's sleeping face, but then he shook his head. "You're wrong. They'd feed me to the dogs. As long as he's with me, they'll tread carefully." James sported his old, confident grin "Besides, I'll never give him up. He's mine. Fuck them all."

"You were also sure his brother and friends couldn't stand the sight of him!"

"Well, apparently I was wrong and thank God I was. The chinky eyes skin me, they skin Sherlock too. That's my life insurance. And yours!" With a rapid, furtive movement James showed Michael what he held in his hands. "Two nice little black babies, are they not?"

The alleged butler winced in sudden recognition. "_You've_ got them? But I thought….what use were they in Germany? The signal's range is 100 km, not more."

"I'd never leave the remote controls out of my sight. Why should I? As long as our tiger believes his brother to be at gunpoint, it's enough."

"Jim, you'll be the death of me one day. I say again, holmes has done wonders for you, just by being there, and yet..."

Moriarty's grin broadened as he took up his bag. "Never mind, I always planned on going back to the UK sooner or later. Now both targets _are_ neatly in the 1oo km range. Why fret, old man?"

Jenkins had a lot to say to that but as the plane's door opened he kept it to himself. Instead he stood defiantly at Moriarty's side while a wary John Watson approached them both.

"Are some other ….. associates with you?" Watson asked crisply, his attention focused on the self-styled 'Consulting Criminal'.

"They'll wait until we're gone before they make their own arrangements for a connecting flight. That was, I think, the deal" James answered most pleasantly. He cocked a brow when John visibly pulled himself together before he swiped the plane's interior with one gaze. "_Looking for the prodigal son, Johnny doggy_?"

As expected Watson winced at the sight of Sherlock and his tone was sharp, but also a bit relieved. "Any special reason for him being unconscious?"

"Does it matter?" James asked back "perhaps he preferred it that way. He certainly had no wish to speak with you."

Watson swallowed that down with a visible gulp but he let the insidious remark go unchallenged. It was only when Sherlock was brought to the waiting ambulance that John dared looking at his one-time friend again. That was when he saw it. Two unremarkable, inconspicuous marks on Holmes' wrists, where the shirt cuffs had slid upwards. Nothing to worry about, one couldn't really call them bruises and come nightfall, they'd be gone.

Yet they gave Watson a hell of a lot to think about.


	13. Operation Lucky Cat

**13. Operation Lucky Cat**

John Watson made it somehow – which meant he had no idea _how_ exactly – back to his room without losing his composure.

But once there, he just collapsed on a sofa. Good heavens, he'd thought it might rattle him to see Sherlock but he'd never thought the mere sight would almost knock his legs off the ground!

And there were these little details. These little oddities which rattled him more than anything. What he had seen on Sherlock's wrists. The fact that his former flatmate had been deliberately sedated before they had a chance to speak...

Somewhere inside Watson, hope stirred. Hope for a miracle. Hope that Holmes was still innocent of any crime. That it had all been a lie. That the man John Watson had come to admire had not been an imagination, but a reality.

His hero, yes, god damn it. His friend.

The hope was painful in itself, as it might still be come to nothing and another loss, another disillusion – how many had there been before? And every single one of them had been enough to burn a man's heart out. Which had been, come to think of it, exactly what Moriarty had once threatened Sherlock with...

There was nothing for it, John had to have confirmation, for the one or for the other. He rose and ventured the first step into a renewed hope – may it be his making or his undoing.

Inwardly he sneered at his own, melodramatic thoughts as he pulled out his laptop.

John's computer took its time booting and the doctor wriggled nervously on his seat. "C'me on, c'me on you stupid…. bastard of a machine" he muttered angrily under his breath and "about time, too" when the screen finally showed the desired image. He made his call and again, he had to wait, this time for his partner to answer it.

Which the great man, gratifyingly, did using a by now familiar routine.

Mycroft Holmes would text his replies to what John told him. So much for Sherlock's assumption that his brother never texted when he could talk.

Since Watson's first days in Macao, there was no webcam image of the 'unofficial' British Government. Instead Mycroft's used, to John's chagrin, a wildly waving, brightly coloured Chinese Lucky Cat for an avatar. The damned thing got on the doctor's nerves because it reminded him of 'The Blind Banker' case.

And, as always, Mycroft didn't care about pleasantries.

"_**Has Sherlock arrived?"**_ the screen blinked in a distinctively rude manner.

"Yes" John answered hoarsely "and there's something I have to tell you…." but he didn't get any further as the impatient lines rolled over his screen most imperiously.

"_**What did he say? Is he all right? Did he say something about the weapon system planes? Who else has been involved in this? What did Moriarty say or do?"**_

John spoke rapidly. "Sherlock was sedated on his arrival. He seemed fine to me but for the pressure marks on his wrists. He's clearly been handcuffed for several hours, probably for the duration of the flight. They used padded manacles, the marks were barely visible but he must have fought them or there wouldn't be any marks at all."

The screen kept silent for a moment. Then it read

_**"Why would anyone handcuff a partner or friend for a flight to safety?"**_

"My thoughts exactly" John answered, tremendously relieved to see his own suspicions confirmed so easily. "Perhaps Sherlock and James are not as thick a pair of pals as Moriarty wants us to believe."

_**Let's not jump to conclusions. We can investigate that later. I rely on you to carry out our plan!"**_

"_Our__ plan my foot" _Watson snorted inwardly. "_Your__ plan." _But aloud he just said "I will, don't worry. I just thought it might interest you that your brother might still be wrongly accused!"

_**Everything that is in the slightest related to Sherlock Holmes interests me. Proceed without delay. I'm on my way."**_

With that, the connection was terminated.

"Now what" John asked the blank screen angrily. "Was that all?"

However, his computer didn't answer and so he decided to do just as he had been told – proceed without delay.

Fortunately this did, at least in his interpretation, not mean that he could not follow his instincts a while longer. So he would have another look at Sherlock and he would have it _now_. John Watson M. D. was, after all, de facto the boss of this former air force ward which Mycroft had assigned to the operation.

Expectably Holmes wasn't alone, although it wasn't Moriarty but his helpmate who kept a miserable vigil at Sherlock's bedside. But then, Watson had never thought much of his orders, strict as they had been at the time they were given, to be polite to the Consulting Criminal and his associates. "Get lost!" was all he said to Jenkins.

"Mr. Moriarty has asked me to…."

"To hell with Moriarty and his requests. You want his face surgically altered and you want it to be done yesterday. Which means, I'll examine him now to make my preparation for tomorrow's surgery and I'm not going to do it with you hovering about my shoulder."

"I would have thought you'd complete your examinations of Mr. Moriarty first!"

"Why should I care what you think? My assistant is examining your boss; the less I've to do with him the better I feel. Now get out!"

"What if I don`t?" Jenkins asked defiantly.

Without any hesitation John pulled his automatic from his belt and trained it on his counterpart. "If I shoot you here and now, would Moriarty miss you enough to forego my help in future?"

After one last look at Holmes' face Jenkins left, clearly unwilling. "I'll be back."

"As long as you close that door behind you, by all means, wear out the corridor's floor as much as you like."

Once alone, Watson became all business. Idiotically he thought of how great it had felt to say "my assistant", grandly, from the back of a very high horse. Captain John Watson had had assistants of course but since he'd become the NHS' dogsbody – no chance. Well, as you sow, so you shall reap.

Whilst he pondered these completely out-of-place thoughts his hands had efficiently undressed Sherlock's limp body and begun to examine it. Suddenly he gasped. In addition to the unmistakable marks of rough hands forcibly holding the man's arms, John's experienced eyes found the scars and marks of other injuries, years old, well healed but shocking nonetheless.

Sometime, some place somebody had done his best to torment a helpless captive into submission; that much was obvious to a doctor who'd seen the like before, more frequently than he cared to admit. This brute, whoever he'd been, had steered clear of doing any serious, permanent damage, but at the time, and for weeks after, what he'd done to Sherlock must have hurt like hell.

After that they'd apparently ceased using physical duress. Perhaps the once cut and stitched up throat had caused a change of heart.

"What a way to start a friendship, eh?" John muttered to himself. "Dear James must have forgotten its low origins."

"I'd rather say he repressed the memory" Sherlock's calm voice answered and the few words sent John jumping with his back against the wall. There he stood, gaping like a carp pulled out of the water. Holmes, unbelievably, returned the stare indifferently; he didn't even blink.

For a long time Watson had tried to imagine how it would be, speaking to Sherlock, asking him how he could possibly have allied himself to a man like Moriarty. To accuse Sherlock, to shower him with all the bad feelings his change of sides had brought to his brother and friends, had almost become a daily habit.

Now that the moment had finally come, John fought for words, utterly unprepared for the occasion. "Was that what you did?" he finally asked, crudely, like a child. "Was it just easier to give in?" Whilst that question occupied the better part of his perennial lobes, his other brain parts wondered "_how the hell can you be awake? They pumped your veins with drugs like air into tyres."_

"John, I'm not going to answer that question. What made me Moriarty's partner is of no consequence. And by the way, recreational use of cocaine and other opium-based drugs can cause a better resilience to sleeping pills. Or injections."

"How could you…. Oh, never mind. I'm not interested in your psychic abilities. I want answers and I will have them, Sherlock."

Holmes sighed impatiently and closed his eyes, as if in utter despair, when he swung his legs from the bed and rose to full height. "As to my well-being, I'm fine, thank you. As to my choice of friends, it's mine to make. As to my favourite choice of company, you're no longer part of it, so would you please leave me alone?"

Sherlock retreated quickly when John pushed him back by the shoulders, hard. "Easy, John. Don't spoil your objet d'art before you've even begun working on it."

"Blast you, you arrogant bastard, all these years and that's what you've got for me? Some supercilious remarks, some snappy jibes and a copper coin tip for services rendered? What am I to you, a stray dog?"

This time Sherlock wasn't fast enough. The next push forcibly turned him and for the first time in this encounter the doctor fully saw Holmes' back. White as chalk, he jerked away, some of his anger substituted by terror. "Good Lord. The bastards!"

"To which bastards are you referring now" said Sherlock. Wriggling out of John's weakened grip, turning and recovering his shirt was one, swift movement. "Me again? Others? Some unknown relatives born out of wedlock? There seems to be a whole lot of bastards in your life, doctor."

"Sherlock, you have been _flogged_."

"Almost four years ago and best forgotten."

"I've not seen the like since the Middle Ages!"

"You've aged well, John. I never thought you to be _that_ ancient."

Whilst they spoke Sherlock got dressed. He had no wish to be examined further, that much was obvious.

John didn't get it. This was absurd, how could this man man, _any_ man, talk like that, act like that, after he'd been brutally tortured? Was that a weird version of the Stockholm Syndrom or what? "Sherlock, please tell me you do not want to see this preposterous scheme through? You can't alter your appearance and ride with Moriarty into the sunset to live happily ever after. Not after…. this!" Disgusted John pointed at Sherlock's now hidden bruises and scars.

"It's exactly what I want and exactly what you're going to do!" Holmes spoke flatly, emotionlessly.

All of a sudden John felt ridiculed. Embarrassed, as if he'd spoken out of place, talking a lot of nonsense like the dimwit he'd always been. His rage just imploded, broke its neck on the rock of Sherlock's conceit. And like a broken bone it hurt. It hurt incredibly somewhere deep within.

"Why, Sherlock? Why are you doing this? To you, to Mycroft and…." John didn't go on. He didn't trust his voice.

"To you? What am I doing to _you_? Are you a relative, a child I'm responsible for? Or a pet dog, like James said? We were flatmates. It was nice while it lasted, now it's over."

"I thought we were friends."

"Think again!"

It was then and there that John suddenly knew he wouldn't accept this. He felt miserable, he felt disgraced, but he wouldn't let go, because no matter what Sherlock said or did, this was _wrong_! "You don't know what you're saying. They've brainwashed you."

"I know what I say and what I do, John. And right now I see absolutely no reason to prolong this unfortunate conversation. Let me pass."

Sherlock stopped when Watson stepped back and trained his weapon on him. "You're going nowhere! Especially not to that nut job Moriarty."

"This is ridiculous. You wouldn't shoot me." Yet something about Watson told Holmes that he couldn't be sure of that.

"I'm a crack shot, remember? I said you stay and stay you will, with or without a shattered knee cap."

"Cripple me in order to save me from a fate worse than death? You really _are_ from the Middle Ages." Sherlock sounded unendurably sarcastic and contemptuous. But he stayed where he was.

Lithely Watson stepped back and he was through the door before Sherlock knew what was happening. Again, Holmes was quick, yet not quick enough; a split second before he reached the handle, the door was safely locked from the outside. "John, let me out. Christ almighty, you don't know what you're doing. John, please."

For the next few minutes Sherlock searched frantically for a way out of the room but there was none.

Finally he admitted to himself that for once his superior gift for observing had abandoned him in a critical moment. It added to the load of self-loathing that already burdened him and not for a moment he considered that the strain of pushing Watson away for good, of hurting his one and only friend deliberately in order to protect him from Moriarty's clutches could have been responsible.

Holmes only knew he'd realized much too late that this medical ward had once been build for easy access, but not for an easy exit. Strong walls, an even stronger door, barred windows – it was all so idiotically familiar. But for the Spartan furnishings and their unmistakable military design it could have been Moriarty's villa in Grunewald all over again.

Except for one, decisive difference. There, even whilst locked in, Sherlock had been reasonably assured that James would make his regular four o'clock calls to his associates. Today, he had every reason to believe that this confinement would be his brother's death sentence and heaven knew who else would be involved. Because of that, no clever escape plan, no complex scheme would work, he needed to see Moriarty now, before it was too late. "John, let me out" the Detective pleaded again. "I'll explain everything to you, I promise. Please, let me see James. I _must_ see him!"

"Like hell you will" Watson muttered outside. Caught somewhere between returning anger and a mortifying sadness he almost enjoyed the increasing distraught he heard. "Rot inside that room for all I care."

Determinedly he turned and walked away. "See how I care!" he shouted before the corridor closed behind him and the voice that called out to him was silenced. "Let your big brother rip you a new one, as you seem to enjoy that kind of thing so much. Preposterous idiot!"

Now, for the other leading character of this disgraceful little drama. Fuck Mycroft, fuck his orders and his typical-MI 6-plan-in-a-plan-in-a-plan.

Somewhat later Watson burst into the criminal's room without so much as knocking. Demonstratively the four men the Secret Service had attached to him took position outside, in front of the door.

John found both Moriarty and Jenkins in comfortable togetherness. Apparently the show of strength did not intimidate either of them. "The deal is off" John said nevertheless. "I've seen what you've done to your alleged 'partner'. There's no way he'll accompany you further."

"Is that so" James retorted, laying a calming hand on Jenkins' arm. "Sherlock's idea or yours?"

"He has no say in the matter. His brother wants a word with him."

"Does the great Mycroft also want to have a word with _me_?" Moriarty's face and voice were perfect imitations of the night at the pool, all these years ago. "Have you come to gloat at my dreadful fate or do you want to make me an offer?" The contempt, the superciliousness and sarcasm, the lunatic quality of his looks and manner – it was all back in a rush.

"You're in no position to bargain for anything!" John snapped back, but there were doubts in his voice and Moriarty wasn't the man to miss them.

"Oh, but I am" James silkily replied. "High Treason is still a very serious offence. Poor Sherlock, with some scars and ancient bruises. Was it really enough to force him into cooperation?"

"That has nothing to…."

"It has _everything_ to do with it" Moriarty snarled. "You came here to get a valid confession that I forced your dear friend to help me. For that you'll promise to let us go."

"Don't delude yourself. I'm not here to make a deal."

"Yes you aaaaare" Moriarty sang, the way he'd done at the pool. He was clearly intoxicated by his own cleverness. "Mycroft would never allow Sherlock to stand trial with no witness to _confirm_ that he acted under duress. All this time, the months he spent in London, free and easy, all these little parties, all these little outings with me, these incriminating pictures ….. Without me, there will not _be_ a Court Case."

Watson could not refrain from swallowing the all too obvious bait. "How did you do it? Break him, make him change sides?"

"_Did_ he change sides?" James shook his head in feigned regret. "Do you believe that of him?"

Watson gave up. He knew when he had been outsmarted, he remembered how that felt. "I still need the confession, on video, signed and witnessed. As a backup, just in case. Give it to me, leave Sherlock alone and I'll let you go. You have my word."

"What about my face?" James pulled his cheeks down like a kid that wants to mimic a ghost. "Or Jenkins' face?"

"There's no time for that, Mycroft is already on his way. I'll take you back to your plane; I can do it, if we start now!"

"Why don't you shoot us?" Jenkins suddenly said. "Your men wouldn't mind and your friend would be safe."

"Dear Michael, you're very rude" Moriarty answered the question before John had a chance. "Our good doctor here is stupid, but not _that _stupid. I must have a hold over Sherlock and Johnny here does not know what it is. If I'm killed what will happen to Sherlock?"

He sneaked a few steps closer towards John, like a snake in the brushwood. "Besides…." He drawled "pray tell me, who's to be the real addressee of my confession, a court of justice or the enraged elder brother?"

Moriarty half turned to Jenkins and waved his hands in an affected manner. "How touching. Little brother gets a heart-warming pardon, a new identity and out of the country he goes, with no one the wiser. A fine piece of hush-hush work." Facing Watson once more he grinned offensively "Will you be holding Sherlock's hand during his first steps into his new life? It's what you dream about every night since your wife walked out on you, isn't it!"

"That doesn't concern you. Let's have the recording now, twenty minutes and you're a free man. You both are."

"May I say good-bye to Sherlock?"

"No!"

Moriarty wanted to reply something but now it was Jenkins who cautioned _him_. Their eyes locked and James seemed to guess what his alleged 'butler' thought. "_Why push it? Holmes will come to you first chance he gets, as long as you have the RCs_._ And he must assume that some of our men are still out there, watching his friends._"

Michael should have known his boss better. James Moriarty would not back down. With a fast grip James pulled the remote controls out of his bag, both thumbs were on the small red buttons, ready to press them down in an instant. "Dearest Johnny, what if I tell you that Mycroft is no threat for me? That your friend Sherlock is at my mercy, right now, in this very moment? Wouldn't that change the odds?"

And only now, after one incredulous look at the two small black boxes, the scales fell finally from Watson's eyes. All the little pieces came together in his head and snapped into place and brought back Mycroft's irritated voice, the afternoon in the elder Homes' office after John had been found in the car-boot.

"_But Sherlock was adamant you once worked for the project. These computer chips, the perfect assassination machine. You __**must**__ remember them._"

And John's exhausted reply. "_I've never worked with the Americans, I know nothing about computer chips and the only assassination machines I've ever seen are registered weapons of the Royal Army._"

Mycroft hadn't believed him. "_Sherlock thought you've been kidnapped because of your involvement with the project. Midair would want information."_

John remembered having banged his fist on the table. "_I've told you, again and again, Midair and James Moriarty are one and the same! Sherlock made that up, too. He lied. He lied through his teeth, right into your face!_"

"Two brothers, two chips" Watson said flatly. He felt more ashamed than he'd ever felt before. "_I should've known, Sherlock. Why on earth feed such an outrageous line to Mycroft if not to warn him? To tell him without telling him that and why you were going to betray him?_"

"The signal is very strong" Jenkins stated quietly. "100 km range, almost no risk of being blanked out. A technical masterpiece. I know you're a good shot, but you won't be faster than James." The butler shrugged "Your weapon, please."

Watson handed over his gun and raised his hands.

Jenkins lost no time with preliminaries. "Tell your men that we've a deal but that you want Sherlock to be present during the recording. He is to be brought here, at once."

With a bitter, sickening feeling of defeat Watson went to the door and opened it, sure without looking that Jenkins would hide the gun from the men outside without so much as losing an inch on his aim. What difference would it make anyway? The RCs were the real threat.

John gave the necessary orders and closed the door again. "Now what, Moriarty?" he asked helplessly "do you even know what you want? You're empire is gone; sooner or later your enemies will catch up with you. Why take Sherlock with you to damnation? Haven't you tortured him enough?"

In this very second the sound of an approaching helicopter distracted them both. There was no other place it could be going to, coming that close to the ward.

A quick glance at the others assured Watson and Moriarty that neither had any idea what this was about.

Barely two minutes later the big machine, capable to carry at least a dozen men, made a smart landing in front of the main building and armed men streamed out before the rotor stopped.

At the same time the door to James' room opened and Sherlock was roughly pushed inside. Ignoring Watson he tried immediately to make eye contact with Moriarty, willing the other to deduce what he wanted to know above all else. "_Did you make that call_?"

James nodded briefly, a familiar sign that, at least in his sometimes bizarre definition, all was well.

Focused as he was on his own guilt stricken misery, Watson missed the brief exchange of vital information. He intended to apologize to Sherlock, to tell him what he knew the instant the four guards would leave, but he was rendered speechless when these four men, _his_ men for the duration of this mission as far as he knew, levelled their guns at the whole group.

Sherlock, on the other hand, looked defeated but not surprised.

Neither did James. Quick as lightening the RCs vanished inside the bag, before even Sherlock could see them. "Michael, I think these gentlemen would want to have your gun" he said. "Apparently our triumph over Dr. Watson was short lived."

One of the Secret Service men caught the weapon neatly as Jenkins threw it to him.

"What the hell….." Watson started, but Sherlock interrupted him. A quick, worried glance had shown him that John was unharmed. As the doctor was never easily persuaded to part with his weapon that left only one possible explanation for John voluntarily surrendering his gun to Jenkins: Moriarty had told him about the RCs.

To Holmes that was definitely bad news. He'd much preferred a completely alienated John Watson who packed his things and walked out on Sherlock Holmes for good, leaving nothing behind but a stream of abusive language and a few bad memories. Naturally the heroic, overly loyal idiot had done just the opposite, as usual.

The very least Sherlock could do for his unfortunate friend was explaining the situation. "They aren't my brother's men, John. They want James, that's all."

"And they want _you_, my dear Sherlock" Moriarty said politely. "You aren't even British, are you." The latter was addressed to the men who guarded them warily, while the newcomers outside secured the site.

"Born in Ohio" one of the four men answered "not that it matters much now."

"Does it matter to you that James is technically your employer?" Sherlock asked drily. "You are with the security guard of Midair's weapons firm after all."

The guard had no need to answer this, as a tiny, gaunt man, an elderly Asian by appearance just entered the room. He had heard this last remark. "I'm very sorry Mr. Holmes, for being forced to correct you. All these men are presently in _my_ employ." The Asian had a soft, very cultivated manner of speaking, his accent barely audible.

John thought he'd been magically transferred to a movie that constantly changed its script without telling anyone. "And you are….?"

"Dr. Watson, I'm glad to find you well" the stranger evaded the question without the slightest rudeness. "I feared for you."

Sherlock couldn't stand his friend's clueless face and so he stated, for Watson's benefit alone, what was perfectly obvious to everybody else. "He's with Chinese Intelligence, John."

The little man shook his head remorsefully. "Forgive me Mr. Holmes for correcting you once more. My superiors can by no means be adequately described by so colourful a term as 'Intelligence'. And I would strongly advise against unjustly accusing the Chinese people. The greatest nation in the world does not debase herself by committing criminal acts."

That said, he made a little amiable gesture with his left hand. "Shall we go? My helicopter awaits."

"You still haven't told me your name!"

The Asian sighed softly. "I must apologize again for being impolite, Dr. Watson. Names _are_ important when people are going to spend some time together. Perhaps you may wish to call me …. Lucky Cat?"


	14. Caught in the middle

**A/N: Sorry for the long delay, I was a bit preoccupied with our new flat, my job, and, yes I admit it, with my other stories. But I will try to give you another update on this one soon.**

**For the same reasons I did not answer to reviews or PMs as I usually (love to) do. So, this time I will say a heartfelt "Thank you" to each and everyone who reviewed this story or made it a favourite or activated his/her story alert or author alert for it. I'm so very grateful, I'm lost for words. Please keep sending me reviews or other feedback on my story, as it keeps me going. I promise, I'll try to answer each review again in future.**

**Slowly but surely the story is approaching the final phase but before this is due, I'll take you on a little ride to Central Asia if you don't mind :-)**

**I hope you'll enjoy and please – don't forget that review button …...**

**14. Caught in the Middle**

It was full spring by now.

Not only in the city of Souzhou but also in the step of the middle-aged, friendly looking Chinese who passed the gate of one of the city's ancient gardens. He returned the greetings he got whilst passing with a lively friendliness which brought, in turn, a friendly smile to the others' faces as well.

By all appearances, the elderly historian and philosopher Prof. Dr. Chang Tse-Dong was having a great day. As always his demeanour showed a certain, moderated pride that people who knew him thought all the more endearing as it originated from the fact that the time-honoured buildings and gardens, for which he was responsible, were once again the fascination of the western world.

Ever since Prof. Chang's untiring work had brought first Beijing and then the UN to the opinion that Souzhou's gardens deserved all the care and attention a part of the UNESCO heritage could get, the academic had striven to keep his hometown in the focus of international attention.

Many citizens of the 2.500 years old place loved the Professor for it. Not that the western interest did impress them much. Why should it? China herself was at the focal point of world economy, with an endless coming and going of western leaders. One could hardly tell all these Long-Noses apart!

But China was also undergoing constant change. The Dragon was continually moulting, at a breathtaking pace. Bridges, roads, houses – they disappeared in Souzhou as quickly as in any other place of the world's upcoming leading power, and sometimes, only inwardly, only silently, only secretly, some people longed for more time to adapt. Or that the growing respect for a wealthy and industrious future would come in a pair with an ongoing respect for their people's great cultural past.

When it came to Souzhou's gardens, Prof. Chang had been courageous and streetwise enough to hammer that idea home into some bigwigs all over the country, as far as to the central authorities in Beijing.

"Look at him" some old neighbours used to say. "So tiny, so fragile, so friendly. His wife's life is roses, roses all the way. At least since her mother in law is gone. But look what he's done. So successful. A scholar, did so much for our town, but look at this big house he's got. Yes, yes. Some people sure know how to lead a good life." Which left much room for debate as to whether it was meant kindly or jealously but after all, it sure was a sign of respect.

Chang Tse-Dong, behind that friendly smile of his, knew their thoughts all too well. The stark contrast between their misconception of him and his real life never failed to amuse him.

Because, for all his wife, his children, his friends and fellow-academics taking him for a mild tempered scientist without much knowledge of the world, nothing could be further from the truth.

The Professor passed by the guard at the entrance of his institute and waved a cheerful good-day.

Inside his office's anteroom, a secretary spotted him on the view-screen of the institute's video surveillance system. As always she called one of her colleagues, using a lame old joke brought back home from her studies in Europe: "Look busy. Lucky Cat is coming."

"How's the day, now that he's past the gate?" the other asked. Worriedly. She had a favour to ask from her boss and wasn't all too happy about it.

"Definitely fair and springlike, with a few clouds coming up later today. You better come early."

"The English again?"

"The English again."

The other muttered something unintelligible and hung up.

Not a second too soon, as the Professor now entered his office. "Good morning" he said. "Where is he?"

"On his way here, doubtlessly" his assistant answered assiduously, yet a trifle hesitant. "He should arrive here at noon-time."

Chang frowned. That was late. "Problems?"

"He needed some persuasion. Felt too comfortable in his quarters to come here." Her voice and face added something she'd never say to her superior's face. "_Spoilt brat. Why you had to pamper that supercilious Brit like you did is beyond me. The committee shouldn't have agreed. Haven't you endangered yourself and all of us enough?"_

In fact, without a single sound her flat, coarse-pored face held a most eloquent speech of reproach which, after more than ten years of close cooperation, wasn't wasted on Tse-Dong. He looked at her with a silent sigh and wondered for the thousandth time how on earth parents could be so very cruel to name a girl as ugly as her after one of Asia's most beautiful women, Li Gong.

Had these parents showed more consideration of her daughter's feelings he might have been blessed with a more tame and tactful assistant!

"I doubt that his personal comfort had anything to do with it" the Professor now muttered. He sounded defiant, he heard it himself. At once he frowned accusingly. "Are you telling me that your friend in Lieutenant Tschou Dai's office is still in difficulties?"

"I wouldn't trouble you with such trivialities" the assistant retorted stiffly.

Chang's answer was a clear reprimand. "No of course you wouldn't." Especially as her ladle was scraping on the bottom of the kettle filled with his gratitude and obligation. _Loudly_ scraping!

Tse Dong could have said that aloud. But what for? She knew it anyway.

Nonetheless Li Gong swallowed the irritated remark without a flinch. "Can I tell my friend to visit you today? She would want to hear your most welcome advice on a personal matter."

"I'm sure she would. When is she due?"

"Four months from now."

"I didn't mean that."

"Forgive me, Professor. What else _could_ you have meant?"

"She knew Tschou Dai is married."

Li Gong's eyebrows went up and down again. Tale-tellingly.

"What do I have to do with anything?" Chang gave anger a try. Futilely, as he anticipated. And futile it was indeed.

"Lieutenant Tschou is your nephew?" Li Gong suggested sternly.

"My nephew, yes, not my son."

"Thank heaven for that, Professor. But which sister would not heed a brother's kind word of admonition? The Lieutenant's mother has been sorrily misinformed about my friend's character."

"All right, all right" he gave in. Even one of China's most senior Secret Service Agents should know when he had been defeated. "This morning, in my office. 11.00 h. Half an hour, not more. I'll be out afterwards."

"Wouldn't I know, Professor?" Li gong now purred silkily. "The details of your journey are in your computer, the papers are on your desk. The staff is briefed and ready. The car and plane are on call. Would you like your tea now?"

As he had done during the last few months Chang Tse-Dong remembered a meeting he'd once had, years ago. His very first encounter with a certain Mycroft Holmes. The memory stirred the usual train of thoughts. "Did you change your alias, as I told you?"

Li Gong, amazing sight, let her eye lashes flutter. "Of course, Professor. I've got a new passport and visa." She lifted her double-chin. "I'm Cherry Blossom now."

It was quiet for a second. Then the Professor cleared his throat. "For a woman supposedly born in Hong Kong, What is wrong with 'Anthea'?"

"Nothing, of course, as you chose the name for me. I know you meant it as a compliment and I'm honoured by your choice."

"But?"

"It's European. I'm not."

"And 'Cherry Blossom' is more becoming? To someone like you?"

"One should never give up, Professor. Neither hope nor strive. They took us to where we are."

He scrutinized her briefly. Then he nodded. "I think I would like my tea now."

"Of course, Professor."

He had cookies with the tea this morning. Home made ones. With cherries.

For the rest of the morning Chang busied himself with routine affairs - and with Cherry Blossom's unfortunate friend and his upcoming grandnephew or -niece. Family! Sometimes one felt that one could do nothing because of them. Yet, one most definitely was nothing without them.

This thought was still in his mind when his guest was finally announced. One look into the deliberately cold and withdrawn green eyes and Chang found he preferred his difficult, capricious siblings over a brother like this.

"Professor!"

"Mr. Holmes." Chang had never even thought of calling this young man 'Sherlock'. One look and he'd known any familiarity to be out of the question. "Take a seat please."

Holmes stood still and upright in front of the desk. "I was told you wanted to see me, Professor?"

"I was told you didn't want to see me."

"The choice wasn't mine to make. What do you want?"

"This is, finally, about return home, Mr. Holmes. As I'm under the impression that our hospitality isn't to your liking I took the liberty of arranging a flight to the United Kingdom. For today."

Chang thought fleetingly of the stupid western cliché called 'Asian opaqueness'. Stupid or not, seeing perfect opaqueness in a _European_ face was very disconcerting. Especially for an Asian.

Besides, looking up to that lean, haggard white features wasn't very comforting. Angrily Chang caught himself wanting to say "s_it down or I call my guards to make you_." Naturally he did nothing of the kind. Such Stalinistic bellowing had been beneath him since his student days and he wouldn't certainly debase himself like that today. "You have nothing to say, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm sure the necessary talking to British authorities has already been done most efficiently by your department. Things can't differ so very much between Services, Chinese or British."

"You aren't looking forward to going home at last?" Chang berated himself the second he said it. Idiotic question under the circumstances! Whom did he think he could fool by playing the good uncle here?

Apparently Sherlock was of the same opinion as he didn't grace that with an answer. However, to Chang's surprise, he finally took the chair he'd been offered and sat down. At least that spared 'Lucky Cat' the trouble of enquiring after his 'guest's' health. Holmes had recovered from the extensive surgery remarkably well. But for the bandage on his neck and the even for him unusual pallor, all visible traces had vanished. Yet one couldn't expect miracles. Especially in someone who wasn't much interested in recovering.

"You are mistaken if you think British prosecution is the only one expecting you" Chang tried to make good on what, to Holmes, could only have been misplaced sarcasm.

It only provoked another rebuff from Sherlock. "Naturally, as they surely wouldn't have paid your price! I could deduce, offhand, a dozen possible misconceptions of my value for which MI 6 would want me. If that was all, can I go now? I see no reason to continue this conversation."

Chang reminded himself that he was interested not in the man but in the outcome of this whole blasted affair. In the profit he and his department would have from it. And direly needed profit, too.

In his long and outstanding career, Chang had achieved great successes and suffered some inevitable defeats but the moment in which, in front of the assembled Secret Committee, it had become obvious that the precious pearl he'd purchased at the fortune of Solomon's, the marvellous new submarine weapon system, was totally worthless – this moment 'Lucky Cat' would neither forget nor forgive.

This new operation had to become a success, so that he and his department might still be forgiven by their superiors.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes. Far be it from me to pry into your privacy. What you think of your homecoming is your affair of course. I trust you will not cause any inconveniences during the flight. We meet on the plane. Good day."

Sherlock left without another word. If he was at all relieved to know that there would be no further restraints or drugs or other indignities he didn't show it.

Briefly Chang marvelled at the English willingness not only to have this insolent, impossibly arrogant and self-centred creature back. In spite of all he'd done they would also pay for his release, and graciously so.

But on the other hand – if one remembered the circumstances under which 'Lucky Cat' and Sherlock Holmes had first met – perhaps not all the insolence was incomprehensible.

And, as he for once had the luxury of being at leisure until it was time to depart for Europe, Prof. Chang Tse-Dong did exactly that.

He remembered this first meeting in an abandoned British Air Force ward, more than six months ago, which had brought Mycroft's younger brother to China's ancient city of Souzhou.

Chang had made a career on the invaluable ability to put oneself into another man's shoes. Even if this other man belonged to another world. Had strange values and ideas. Or was under extreme pressure.

And a pressure more extreme than that which had weighed down the younger Holmes on that day near London was hardly imaginable.

It had, after all, been the day on which Sherlock Holmes had finally lost all he'd ever held dear to a brilliant yet lunatic criminal named James Moriarty.


	15. Waterloo

**15. Waterloo**

Frankly, Chang couldn't acquit himself of all the blame for the London disaster.

He had been overzealous as well as careless when making his preparations. He had allowed his feelings – positive and negative – to take precedence over his logic and experience.

The wish to redeem himself in the eyes of his superiors, the craving to make good on his disgraceful blunder and, yes for once he would admit it, his deeply felt – and deeply hidden – sense of natural superiority when it came to westerners – he had got carried away by these whims.

From the very start the operation had blown up more dust than 'Lucky Cat' cared to admit. He had called in favour after favour, from corrupt informants, or those who seeked advantage for their country or their friends without a thought for collaterals. Whatever their motive, they had made sure he could involve authorities or people who had no idea whom they were working with. The German BND, American mercenary agencies, British border authorities...

In any case, the list of obligations Chang had relied upon was an uncomfortably long one.

Nevertheless, in the beginning all had gone smoothly, according to plan.

Standing there, having both the self-styled Consulting Criminal and the Consulting Detective – ridiculous, these childish European romanticisms – at gunpoint, Chang had felt that it had been worth it.

He would take his 'guests' to a safe house, his surgeons would cut the chip out of Holmes' neck and afterwards James Moriarty would have no other choice but to reveal the hiding place of the RCs and the chip system's blueprints.

The catch of the perfect assassination machine would not be enough to save James' skin. Human vermin such as this had no place on earth in the Professor's eyes. But it would definitely give back Chang Tse-Dong his face.

This last thought brightened the Chinese's day enough to dwell on some positive side effects of a less personal nature. Not only would the honour of having rid the earth of a most despicable criminal go to the Chinese people. If or if not Mycroft Holmes was a spent force – it couldn't be harmful to have his brother.

As always when he was on the brink of a great success, Chang felt a superstitious urge to become nervous. The very last second of an operation, when success was already in one's grasp – that was when the really big mistakes were made.

Most of all, Chang wanted no run-in with the British. He therefore breathed much easier when they approached the helicopter. After all, what could possibly go wrong now? Moriarty and his associate trotted peacefully among the guards, doubtlessly convinced by 'Lucky Cat's' - naturally empty - promises of future safety and support.

Holmes and Watson, both a step or two behind James and Jenkins, had their hands cuffed behind their backs and were strictly guarded.

Chang was sure anyway that Holmes wouldn't try anything. Not with all these guns trained at his friend's head. Sherlock hadn't even flinched when he had been restrained and so far he'd offered no resistance, not by deed, not by word. If he'd spoken at all it had been to explain their situation to a visibly clueless Dr. Watson.

Chang was in such a good mood, he allowed himself a mild pang of conscience on the doctor's behalf.

Watson was a man way too straightforward, too honest and too honourable for spy business. As Chang himself had admitted a few minutes ago. "I'm sorry for deceiving you, Dr. Watson. You thought you were chatting with my most appreciated colleague Mycroft Holmes but you were actually conversing with me. I needed your cooperation to get to your friend and . And under my own name, I'd hardly befriended you."

After a lifetime of deducing vital information from an almost invisible motion of the face, the hands or chest, Chang had no difficulties to read John's feelings from his face.

The doctor was gobsmacked. All of this, it happened too fast for him. If anything at all he understood that somehow his friend Sherlock, of whose innocence he was more convinced than ever, was in even greater danger than before. Somehow this was John Watson's doing, albeit how that should have occurred, he had no idea.

It was, however, Sherlock's reaction that fascinated 'Lucky Cat' most. To all accounts the younger Holmes was an unfeeling sociopath, incapable of even the slightest empathy. And yet it was obvious that he cared deeply for Watson.

Anyone could easily deduce a whole world of hurt feelings from the doctor's face. John was exhausted, humiliated as he'd been made a complete fool and bitterly disappointed as his hopes of escape for him and Sherlock were crushed. But most of all, John Watson was terrified. The usually indomitable soldier was scared stiff.

Obviously that disconcerted Sherlock. It also let his own courage falter. His shoulders sank the tiniest bit, his head bent a fraction. "Do as they say John. Please!"

"_He must have felt like this the day he first begged Moriarty for mercy_" Chang thought. "_Must have been t__he same acute, paralysing sensation of total failure he's experiencing now_."

Chang Tse-Dong knew how _that_ felt and, like Sherlock, he had James Moriarty to thank for it.

John, on the other hand, stared at his former flatmate in a peculiar way. Expectant, was that the word? As if waiting for one, ingenious word or deed that would change it all, solve it all, and finally, at last, bring this nightmare to an end. Perhaps that was, in Watson's opinion, Sherlock Holmes' task in life, to know the solution to anything, at any time, any place, especially when and where nobody else did.

"_Alas, my friend_" Chang thought "_not today_."

In that second Tse-Dong's gaze fell on James and he froze.

No.

It couldn't be.

Not now.

Not when he had come so close.

Like by an icy waterfall Chang's mind was suddenly flooded with all the hints that should have warned him.

Moriarty and Jenkins having their bags packed and ready although they couldn't possibly know that he was under way. The Criminal's good spirits. His ready faith in Chang's promises. And finally the long, hard stare at Holmes and Watson. A warning. A clear, concise warning which Chang had grossly misinterpreted as "_stay out of my negotiations_".

Now James was smiling radiantly while he waggled his fingers of both raised hands. "I know it's a bad time" he said. "But I think I'm not up to a trip to Central Asia after all." He chuckled slightly. "I _am_ a bit changeable."

The angry reprimand that was already on his lips died on Chang's suddenly very dry tongue. With a sharp yelp he whistled his helpmates back.

Two steps away from the helicopter's hatch, in a perfect position unreachable from behind or both sides, Moriarty stood, a glittering black plastic item in each hand, thumbs ready to press down, his handsome face all polite remorse. "That's as far as I'm willing to go with you, dear Sir. I suggest you untie our good doctor here. Never got a pilot's license myself." Again he waggled the two RCs in his hands. "Please hurry. I'm prone to catching a cold in this kind of draft."

Painfully hot and cold at the same time, humiliation shot through Chang.

Outsmarted.

Outmanoeuvred.

Again!

By the same man, in the same way.

It couldn't be true. It just couldn't, it just mustn't be true!

Meanwhile, nobody moved.

Like Jenkins', Holmes' eyes were locked on the two RCs. He said nothing but his face was intent, as if he had his own way of wordless talking to his personal nemesis.

Chang almost jumped when the most unexpected voice of all gave a crisp, dry comment on the situation. "He keeps doing that, you know" Watson remarked. "Don't take it personal but he's caught you flat-footed. He presses the buttons, the chips do their killing bit and they're trash. No secrets, no reward for anyone, sorry! He's destroyed the blueprints years ago."

"How would you know?" Chang asked briskly. This was absurd.

I've been with the project as a medicinal adviser" John explained. "I was there when the chief scientist sold the chip system to Moriarty and was murdered for his troubles." He shrugged for an apology as Holmes stared at him with disbelief. "Sorry, Sherlock. I've been working with Mycroft's office long before I was ordered to befriend you. Your brother thought it high time you came under closer surveillance." He looked around and shrugged again. "Sounded like a good idea at the time."

"Well, whatever" James interrupted impatiently. He looked slightly baffled by John's revelations. And it certainly aggravated him that he should _be_ baffled by anything John Watson did or said. "He's right, dear Asian friend. You lose Sherlock, you lose the system. There no longer _is_ a second chip. I used it to kill Ronald Midair's elder brother."

The exchange had been brief and hastened and yet it had given Chang ample time to pull himself together. "You can't possibly expect me to let you go. You'll never give up your only bargaining chip." Idiotically, Chang enjoyed the play on words.

Moriarty, still smiling, shook his head. "See?" he asked and pressed the button of the RC in his left hand before he let it fall to the ground.

"NO!"

Sherlock's scream pierced the marrow and bone of anyone present. Even Moriarty was visibly shocked.

Before anyone could stop him Holmes jumped over his bound hands, bringing them from his back to his belly. The blink of an eye later his fists crushed into James' face.

Moriarty staggered and was about to fall when Sherlock caught his right wrist with both hands, desperately trying to wrench the second RC from it. Or so it looked.

James stared at his counterpart with wide eyes. "What are you..." he stammered. The thumb of his right hand was pressed down by Sherlock. Mercilessly the pressure grew until James knew he'd either trigger the second chip or let his fingers break.

Now it came to James that Sherlock could only use both hands together which left his body unprotected. Moriarty's' knee hit his testicles; Holmes bent over double and let go for an instant before he tried to regain his hold.

It was too late. Three of the mercenaries overwhelmed him and dragged him back in spite of his desperate struggling.

However, Sherlock's attack had been enough to bring James into the other soldiers' reach. One man grabbed the criminal's raised hand from behind, pulled it back and down until, with a sickening sound, the shoulder came out of joint.

James cried in agony. He let go of the unused RC. His feet kicked the ground uselessly and pushed both RCs further away, towards Chang and Watson.

Alas, John was caught up in his own fight. He dropped down and rolled towards Sherlock, to kick one of his captors' feet from under him. The man fell to one knee and gave Holmes all the leeway he needed to shake off the other two whilst they struggled to remain standing.

Quickly Sherlock pulled Watson to his feet. His eyes searched frantically for the RCs.

In this instant a shot resounded from the walls. "Freeze, unless you want me to spill his brain all over you."

John whispered to himself that now he'd finally lost it. He didn't even know if it was a good or a bad thing that Jenkins had somehow got hold of a gun which he now pressed to 'Lucky Cat's' temple.

After a moment of hesitation the soldiers lowered their weapons. They were to be paid by the tiny man who struggled weakly in Jenkins' hold. Until they'd got their pay, this man was the only one important to them.

James pulled himself upright, tightly nursing his injured shoulder. "Good" he gasped. "Finally some sensible behaviour." He snapped his fingers at one of the mercenaries. "You have such a fine collection of nice guns all over you. Mind to borrow me one?"

The soldier looked at his CO who nodded.

Moriarty got what he wanted. With gritted teeth he let go of his shoulder and trained his weapon at Watson's' head, who stood almost at arm's length between Holmes and James. "Be a good boy, Sherlock. Take this friendly officer's keys and unlock John's handcuffs. Now, if you please!"

Holmes caught the keys that were thrown at him. He made a step forward and stopped at James' angry hiss. "One move towards that damned RC and you die a very lonely man, Sherlock. Even lonelier than you already are."

A second later Watson massaged his bruised wrists while he watched helplessly as Sherlock was now held at gunpoint by Moriarty.

"Dearest doctor, please be so kind to pick up the bone of contention and hand it to me, will you" James said softly and, as John just stared at him, the criminal added "the RC, dear Watson, the RC."

John had long lost any clue he might have had of which RC was which. It seemed pointless anyhow. If Sherlock died by the RC's button being pressed or the trigger of the handgun being pulled, what difference would it make? So Watson bent down, picked up both RCs and gave them to Moriarty who pocketed them.

"I now suggest you pilot us out of this nasty place, doctor. Jenkins, would you please show your guest in?"

Michael shoved 'Lucky Cat' towards the helicopter's hatch as James covered Sherlock with his gun and John made for the pilot's seat.

Watson frowned suddenly. Perhaps he wondered how on earth Moriarty could know about his pilot's license for helicopters.

"Step back please" James said to the soldiers. "I promise, you'll get your boss back for a friendly pay day at the earliest possible convenience. It's just that my friends and I have other plans presently. Sherlock, get in, now."

Holmes shook his head. "No!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I won't come with you."

Watson, cursing under his breath as he had already fastened the seat's straps, winced when he heard the weapon click over Moriarty's voice. "Think again, Sherlock. While you still can."

"I'm fed up, James" Holmes replied. "You need John for a pilot but I don't need you any more. Shoot me or do what you like. You need a new live-in one. I'm done licking your boots."

"Forgot what I said about loneliness?"

"Your organisation is in shambles. Nobody is out there to do your bidding. The only weapon you had in your own hands you've just used. You're ancient history, James Moriarty."

Watson yelped when the gun came even closer to Holmes' face.

Moriarty and Sherlock now were standing before the hatch, so close and yet out of reach.

Immediately behind John, Michael Jenkins lowered his own weapon away from his captive to cover Watson in the pilot's seat.

In this very instant the fragile, skinny Chinese, who had so far been completely tame and subdued, dashed forward, his legs kicking out with unexpected force.

Jenkins was thrown backwards while the weapon flew from James' hand.

Chang screamed in surprise when Sherlock's hands pulled him out of the machine, away from Jenkins who was fighting to get up.

John finally freed himself from the last strap that had held him to the seat.

Michael never knew what had hit his chin. As his vision cleared, he looked over the muzzle of his own gun into John's grim face.

But the weapon in Watson's hand was not what terrified the 'butler'. Outside, James made a move towards 'Lucky Cat'.

Sherlock pushed the Chinese to one side, away from his attacker.

Moriarty dropped down, rolled away from the helicopter and reached for the gun he'd lost, groaning with pain from his shoulder but hell-bent to win.

Sherlock's foot hit James' wrist a split second too late.

The criminal came up with the weapon in his hand. He ignored all and anything around him. All but the one.

"Good bye, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock did not stir.

Only now John realized that his friend was willing to die.

Jenkins and Watson both screamed when the shot was fired. Actually a whole volley.

It was the first bullet that hit James Moriarty's chest.

Blood. Blood everywhere. Yet on his face, nothing but surprise when the criminal fell on his back, losing hold of his weapon.

Holmes, although John couldn't believe it, was unharmed.

Behind Sherlock, the young soldier who had fired lowered his gun. Unsure if he had done the right thing. This man – Moriarty? - had been the enemy. Right? Right?

"Jimmy!" Regardless of the gun Jenkins pushed John aside. His sole thought was of his boss and friend.

James' butler and close associate never made it out of the helicopter. The next shot, this time from the CO, killed him instantly.

For reasons far beyond his own understanding Watson found it perfectly natural that Sherlock should rush to Moriarty. John climbed out of the helicopter and did the same.

Chang prevented his men from hindering the two men as they knelt down by James' side.

Fascinated the Chinese watched John checking James over, before he shook his head. A surgeon's final verdict: No help possible.

Chang Tse-Dong reprimanded himself that he had not come here to watch a fascinating human drama. He had to complete his mission as best he could and get the hell out of here.

He walked, now armed himself, towards the three men on the ground. His eyes went wide when he saw James' hand and he walked faster.

No matter how fast he moved, he came too late. Not even Watson found the time to stop Moriarty's left thumb from pressing down on the button of the RC he held.

With his guts in his throat John stared at Sherlock, expecting to see him fall in convulsions, screaming, blood pouring from his mouth or ears.

One second ticked away.

Two.

Three.

Nothing happened.

It should have alarmed 'Lucky Cat' that neither Sherlock nor Moriarty seemed surprised.

"You always knew which was which" Sherlock said. "You fooled me, James. Completely. I grant you that."

Moriarty smiled. Happily. Could one believe it? "Naturally. What did you take me for?"

"But I was right about the first chip? When you triggered it you killed …...?" Sherlock broke off.

"Of course you were right. You're so smart. After all …." James inhaled sharply when the pain hit him in spite of all his efforts to suppress it "you are the only one... who's my equal. Almost my equal."

"Sherlock, what...?" John began but Holmes ignored him.

James grabbed Holmes' sleeve. "There is nobody else, you know. Not for me. Not even Michael. It was Sherlock and me, from the very start. Nobody else mattered. You and me, Sherlock!" Blood bubbled from his mouth and he panted. "My arch enemy. My twin brother who misguidedly joined the wrong side. The side of the angles. I knew I was right about you, Sherlock."

Holmes freed his hand. "You're empire is lost. You're dying. What use is it to you now? Any of this?"

"You're alive, Sherlock. What use is that to you? You'll live and ... die a lonely man... without a single friend. I told you, remember? When I first took you? You didn't... want to believe me. But... I made sure I was right ...You... are going... to miss me...you'll see..."

Moriarty's eyes rolled upwards. A minute later, he was dead.

John shouted at Sherlock who did not move. Finally the doctor shook Holmes' shoulder violently. Again to no avail.

Chang decided that he had no more time to waste.

His men pulled both Holmes and Watson to their feet while the Professor took both RCs, glad beyond words that in his final moments Moriarty had obviously mixed them up. Otherwise Sherlock would be dead and 'Lucky Cat's' mission a complete failure. His last failure on this earth, that much was certain.

Lost in thoughts, Sherlock had walked some steps by Chang's side when he suddenly turned, raised his still chained wrists and knocked Watson out with vicious force. John fell without a sound.

Chang drew a deep, calming breath before he spoke. "I take it you do not want him to accompany us?"

"Once he's figured out what has happened _he_ wouldn't want to come with _me_" Holmes answered.

'Lucky Cat' looked at him bewilderedly because of the sharp bitterness in his voice and smile.

Some instinct told the Chinese agent to play along with this strange action. In spite of his original plan he left John behind, where he lay, on the airfield asphalt.

They were already in the helicopter and safely under way, to a place and fate Holmes couldn't be less interested in, when Chang, peculiarly unsettled by the younger man's behaviour, tried to comfort his 'guest'. The enigmatic Englishman had, after all, most probably saved Tse-Dongs' life. "The chip should come out in no time. After that I see no reason why you shouldn't return home whenever you wish."

Sherlock stared at him as if he doubted the Chinese's mental health. "There _is_ no chip in my neck. There never was. I no longer have a home to return to and as for my wish to return to England at all – shouldn't you speak to your superiors before you offer me permanent asylum in the People's Republic?"

Chang was put off. That a prisoner should try to unsettle his captor wasn't so very unheard of but this young man was clearly delusional. Or taking his captor for a complete fool, which was by far the worse assumption.

However, before Chang could speak his mind, Sherlock suddenly went limp. A quick examination and the Professor's hand came back bloodied.

As it turned out, a bullet had gone through Holmes' body, sometime, some place during the chaotic struggle. It had scraped along two ribs and injured the spleen.

It took the Chinese doctors quite a while to make their patient fit for the necessary surgery in his neck and brain-stem.

Unfortunately, as Sherlock had said, the latter was for nothing.

Three operations, because Chang didn't want to believe it, but then he had to accept that his 'guest' had been perfectly right.

There was no chip. There never had been one. And without it, the RCs were worthless.

Like Sherlock Holmes Prof. Dr. Chang Tse-Dong had fought his final battle against James Moriarty.

Like Sherlock Holmes, Chang Tse-Dong had been defeated.

Holmes didn't care much.

For the Professor, the world imploded.

After his final debriefing on this operation he got a kind, warm-hearted invitation to come to Beijing in two weeks time. For a report to a higher ranking official. Should the esteemed Professor's and colleague's health so permit, of course.

It went without saying that his 'declining health' was expected to _not_ permit him to travel, ever again. He was to have a premature demise. Discreetly. Otherwise someone would give him the push off during the journey.

Under no circumstances the faceless slouch would make it to the capital alive. Chang Tse-Dong would not embarrass his betters again!

Chang brought his affairs in order, did not forget to complain to his relatives and friends about sudden pains in chest and back, faked a visit to the doctors and had no difficulties to look pale and drained.

However, he felt strange qualms about the young Brit's fate whom he had brought here and whom he would now leave to the mercy of his successor in The Souzhou Institute of Celestial Harmony and Gardens.

He visited Sherlock whenever he could. Alas, it was of little avail.

If Chang had announced an upcoming beheading, he'd earned himself the first genuine, heart-felt thanks from Holmes.

Instead the Professor cared for the best medical care and a very comfortable confinement – if only for the time being, which Sherlock did not know. All Chang got for his pains was icy looks and cutting sarcasm whenever he showed his face.

It took all of 'Lucky Cat's' remarkable abilities of deduction to gather that the young Brit thought himself all alone in the world and England, his home country, as well as the rest of the western world to be closed to him forever.

Chang asked for the reasons behind these surprising convictions.

Holmes looked at him as if being forced to behold an appalling mixture between a dim-wit and a poisonous vermin.

The Professor did not ask again.

Not that Chang couldn't sympathize with the Brit's obvious feelings of loss and despair.

After all, 'Lucky Cat's' second failure would not only be his but also his department's, perhaps even his family's, undoing.

Chang's misery lasted to the day an ominous SMS arrived.

_"We all have our Waterloos from time to time. _

_That doesn't necessarily mean we have to die on St. Helena. _

_If you want to get rid of a certain bad mannered British citizen presently in your hold, just say the word. _

_Naturally we'll cover your expenses._

The War Office, as Chang called Beijing's Ministry of Defence to himself, phoned the same day. They were _very_ interested in Prof. Dr. Chang's excellent connections to the United Kingdom. Extraordinary coincidence by the way that they had just entered negotiations with the British about some vital security cooperation. Surely the Professor knew about their ongoing efforts to keep the Chinese people safe?

No, the negotiations would not only include military technology or trade.

Other, rather sensitive affairs, too.

Of a more …... diplomatic nature.

No, a journey to Beijing would not be necessary, not at all.

By the way, did the Professor know how overjoyed they all were to hear that he was of robust health?

Of course, the Professor could make his own arrangements.

Naturally he could take to London whomever he saw fit.

Relatives.

Friends.

British ones, perhaps?

A good day to you, Prof. Chang. Always happy to oblige.

So far the Professor had not been aware of his extraordinary connections with the British.

But who gave a shit?

Not he, if they made an unlucky cat's sky so much brighter than before.

Chang decided not to tell 'a certain bad mannered Englishman' anything until the day of their departure.

Holmes' moods would only spoil a perfect day.

Instead, Chang Tse-Dong went out for stroll.

Lucky Cat and Cherry Blossom enjoyed the gardens in quiet companionship.

It was springtime and all life in Souzhou began afresh.


	16. And many happy returns

**16 And many happy returns**

Still clueless, still awkward and still in the middle of the Chinese embassy's green chamber where he'd spent the last 60 or so minutes, a forlorn Dr. Watson looked at the dossier in his hands.

Two folders with a whole lot of DVDs, all of them able to store a great amount of data. Some papers. And two of the photos of Sherlock and Moriarty that Lestrade had shown an aghast Watson on Rügen, all these months ago. Sherlock and James arm in arm, laughing, proof of their friendship.

John felt sick by the sight.

The folders had coverlets which had obviously been added belatedly. Luckily, they were inscribed. Unluckily, the inscriptions were in German.

John stared up at the Chinese paintings that covered the ceiling. God, what was he doing here?

There had been this letter from the Chinese embassy. A most civil, almost pompous invitation to meet a Professor Chang Tse-Dong on a matter of mutual interest. Actually about a deal in very special Lucky Cats. Only one date possible. The Professor would have the pleasure of bringing a very special guest. Someone who, presumably, would be welcomed by the esteemed doctor.

It could mean anything or nothing.

To Watson's overheated imagination it had meant everything.

He had been waiting for some sign, for some message, however enigmatic, ever since the day he'd come to on that damned airfield. With a swimming and aching head. A foul taste in his mouth. And alone.

Moriarty's and Jenkins' bodies – gone.

The men who had posed as his fellow doctors or paramedics or as guards – gone too.

And so was Sherlock. Gone. His friend had been in his grasp. John had talked to him, seen him, felt him and yet he'd let him slip through his fingers, just like that.

For a long, long time Watson had been standing on the abandoned airfield, in the wind, in the cold, under a grey and heavy sky.

In the end, very deliberately, meticulously and slowly, limb by limb, he had sat down on the ground.

Just to stay there. Just waiting that it would finally be over. That it would pass. That it would cease weighing him down. Crushing him. Whatever 'it' was. 'It' had no name, no description. Except, perhaps, 'overwhelming'. An emotion far, far too strong for words.

Later he had thought that he had known. That he had had some kind of premonition. He had known that this was the end of the world, long before he'd actually noticed that his mobile beeped insistently.

Molly. Molly Harper from Bart's.

"_Sarah is desperately ill. It came so suddenly. Please come._"

Again, and again, and again, and again. Twenty, thirty text messages or more.

He wanted to jump to his feet. He really did. He tried.

His legs abandoned him. He toppled over and fell on his face.

Sherlock was gone. Sarah was ill. And he could do – exactly nothing.

It was Helmand all over again. He wanted to run but couldn't; he wanted to save the day, but couldn't; he wanted to fight, but couldn't.

Like on the day he had been shot.

It had just been too much.

He said yes but his body said no and without his body he would go nowhere.

Simple, wasn't it.

Hours later someone had come to him.

John looked up. "Lestrade?"

The DI had talked and talked until they'd reached Bart's. About Molly calling him in the end, about a police helicopter spotting John's hired car in this godforsaken place and about a whole lot of other things.

It occurred to Watson that some things didn't add up but it wasn't important.

Nothing was important any more.

Sarah had died three gruesome, agonizing days later.

John had had no chance to say good-bye. No chance to tell her that he loved her. What she meant to him. More than his life, which was a sorry mess anyway. How sorry he was that their life hadn't worked out. How much he missed her already.

He had tried to tell her, down in the morgue, when he was finally alone with her. But he couldn't tell her, not to that waxen, lifeless face.

"_People do not go to heaven when they've died, they're taken to a special place and burned_." Sherlock's voice. Of all times, of all places and of all the things he once had said, it had had to be this moment, this place and this sentence.

Sherlock and Sarah, they hadn't got along with each other in life and apparently they didn't get along with each other in death either.

John had turned round sharply and left and he hadn't come back.

Harry had taken care of everything. The funeral, the financial affairs, an apartment for him – no, thank you, I'll have our old flat back in Baker Street – you can't Johnny, all these memories, you just can't – just watch me – Johnny, please – FUCK OFF DAMN YOU!

Harry had given up on the flat but she had taken care of anything else, food, new clothes. And company. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, others, many others – an endless stream of people, talking, hugging, caring...

Caring definitely wasn't an advantage. John had told them so in the end in no uncertain terms. Mrs Hudson still sneaked in and out like a mouse sometimes. The others had walked out and never come back.

Thank heaven!

After a while John had realized that he'd begun waiting.

Waiting for a black limousine to drive up his street. For a mysterious call or text on his mobile. Even for the great man to show up in Baker Street.

Nothing.

Until, one evening, quite out of the blue, Lestrade had been at his doorstep. Once more the of harbinger of bad news. From head to toe. It was so very obvious, John imagined he heard Sherlock scoff. With a virtually sepulchral voice, Lestrade had delivered his message. "John, it only occurred to me today. Did anyone tell you that Mycroft is dead?"

The DI had gone on and on. In situations such as this that was his habit apparently. John had let the other talk without listening until he had made his one and only comment. "Is there anyone left in this world who gives a shit about what has become of Sherlock?"

Lestrade had shaken his head. "I do not think so. And perhaps its for the best. This story you told..."

"It wasn't a story. It happened. They took Sherlock, against his will. Moriarty is dead and by the way, Sherlock never _was_ his friend. He was forced to do anything Moriarty said because of these damned chips..."

"I've taken the liberty of talking to your sister, John. And she's seen your therapist." Lestrade sighed before he continued, laboriously delicate. "You must understand that you've suffered some terrible shocks lately. You're traumatized..."

"I'm not delusional. I know what happened."

"Up to a certain point, surely. But this story about the computer chips... You couldn't live with Sherlock having betrayed you, abandoned you, even used you to stage his escape to... wherever he's gone with his pal. Can't you understand, you were overtaxed and made it all up."

"And what about Mycroft having died of a brain disease, eh? How would I know that, eh, if it weren't for the computer chips?"

"You know because I've just told you, thrice. Christ, you're imagining this espionage stuff."

"My sister is the family drunkard, not me!"

Lestrade had inhaled sharply and straightened his back at that. "Sherlock was a fraud from the very start, he's gone some place with Moriarty to do heaven knows what to innocent people. And I say good riddance, as long as it isn't here!"

John hadn't felt so good about kicking someone out of his flat since his teenager years.

But afterwards... afterwards all had been silent again and he had indeed started imagining things. Things about what might happen to his friend, in this very moment.

One thing was certain – with Mycroft dead, nobody would lift a finger for the sake of Sherlock Holmes. And with his visa for China permanently invalid, neither would John Watson.

He had sent so many E-Mails to 'Lucky Cat' he lost count without ever getting an answer.

Until this invitation from the Chinese embassy had arrived.

John had hammered against Mrs. Hudson's door for her to read it out to him, then he'd asked the grocer and the assistant in a shop around the corner to do the same. All had told him the same story. He wasn't imagining this.

This was a message, if not from his friend then at least it was _about_ him.

Finally Watson had pulled a few strings of his own. Phoned a few acquaintances in the Air Force.

He'd got some information, surprisingly. A Chinese scholar was expected. An archaeologist. Bigwig, by all appearances. _Big_, big bigwig. Military flight, Chinese Air Force. Big staff, embassy reception, Westminster giddy with excitement.

In the end his Air Force friend had made fun of the whole affair. "You know, last time we had such a circus going on it turned out as a exchange of spies. Back in Germany, that was. But then, it was the Cold War. Nothing like that today. Dull times, eh? Sorry, John, I must dash. Staff meeting with the brass. Next time I'm passing Baker Street we'll have a pint. All right? See you."

So John had come to the Chinese embassy today. With this idiotic hope and expectation and now he stood here all dressed up and with nowhere to go.

For half an hour Prof. Dr. Chang had talked to him and all John had gathered from the man's – at least he _was_ Lucky Cat – enigmatic gibberish was that the Chinese was as keen as mustard to meet with the late Mycroft Holmes.

He hadn't taken positively to the message that Mycroft wouldn't make it to the rendezvous.

Now what did this mean for the younger brother? Was Sherlock here somewhere? _How_ was he? What would happen to him now?

John fought the urge to shout Sherlock's name. Or to sing 'Que sera sera' as loud as he could.

This wasn't a Hitchcock movie.

Why, oh why had Chang thought Watson to be the man to contact? Once he had had a flash of genius, when he'd told Mr. Lucky Cat that he needed Sherlock alive, for the chip. But as always with the Watson genius it had done no good.

Probably it had made things much worse.

Chang would never believe now that Watson had absolutely no idea what was going on. If 'Lucky Cat' indeed used Sherlock as some kind of hostage, John had most likely sealed his friend's fate.

Again!

A very polite secretary appeared. She showed him out, assuring him the Professor would not leave England without having an answer to his request one way or the other and then she was gone.

John was on the street, the dossier still in his hands. He cradled it to his chest, the inscription visible above his hands. What on earth should he do now?

He walked along aimlessly racking his brain for a solution, knowing all the time that he was way out of his depth.

He only noticed the car that drove slowly by the pavement when the door was opened and blocked his path. A man left the car energetically. Black hair, dark brown eyes, tall, slender, a deeply tanned skin. "Dr. John Watson?" he asked.

Absurdly Watson asked himself how that man could possibly have emerged from a very official looking vehicle with a German licence plate. "Captain John Hamish Watson?" the man asked again, urgently.

"Yes" John said.

Now he was sure he knew what this was all about.

This was a dream, a stupid, senseless, weird and twisted nightmare.

Problem just was, it was somebody else's dream, as Watson was clearly having no say whatsoever in it.

"I'm Oberstleutnant Jakub Demirkan" the other said. "I take it you've got some questions about the dossier you're holding?"

"What makes you think that?"

The other smiled. "You don't speak German, do you? These words written all over the folders say "Streng Geheim". It means top secret. For your eyes only. Perhaps not the suitable item to carry around the streets of London just like that." He chuckled. "You shouldn't leave the folders in a bus. Or carry them around Westminster."

"Why should I go to Westminster?"

"Indeed, Doktor. Why should you. Especially as your best go-to guy has had a change of address recently. Perhaps you wish for a lift?"

Only now John realized that the other was anxious to get him into the car.

Without any more ado John took place on the back seat and waited for the Oberstleutnant to join him. If Demirkan was astonished, he didn't show it as he took the seat opposite Watson.

"You said something about a go-to guy?" John asked once they were under way.

"Someone most anxious to see you" the Oberstleutnant confirmed.

Watson looked sheepishly. "I don't speak German" he said.

Demirkan smiled. "That will hardly be necessary" he replied. "Some of us do speak English."

"Of course" John said, feeling his ear tops growing hot.

They reached their destination, an inconspicuous, new office building in the Southwest of London and Demirkan showed his guest in. A long row of dull office doors, grey corridors, one after the other.

Conversationally Demirkan remarked "Maybe we can speak later, Doktor, in Turkish. I know from your file that you know my family's language and I love every opportunity to speak it."

"You're a Turk?"

"No, Doktor. I'm as German as Vegetarian Shishkebab. My family emigrated from Anatolia to Cologne. I admit, it must be confusing for a Brit."

The sarcasm wasn't wasted on Watson but he had no chance to reply anything as the Oberstleutnant opened a door and John was blinded by the sudden sunlight that came through the large windows of the spacious corner office.

"Danke, Herr Oberstleutnant" the man who stood by the window with his back to the arrivals said. "Ich bin Ihnen und Ihren Kollegen sehr verbunden."

"Das wär's dann für's Erste?" Demirkan asked.

"Ja. Ich sage Ihnen dann Bescheid wenn wir so weit sind."

Demirkan nodded and left.

John hardly noticed.

He was too busy staring at the man who by now approached him with his hand outstretched. "John. How very good to see you. My dear, please, take a seat."

It was high time that a chair was shoved under John Watson's backside, as his legs gave way in this precise second.

Speechlessly he stared at the ghost who smiled down on him derisively. "Happy birthday, my dear. It is your birthday today, John, isn't it?"

Watson looked at the calendar on the desk.

Yes.

His birthday.

He'd completely forgotten.

"Many happy returns, my dear."

Watson looked up at the smiling face with the cocked brow. He swallowed painfully. Sweat trickled down his spine. "Speaking about returns..." he croaked helplessly.

"Yes" the other drawled with wicked amusement. "Speaking about returns..."


	17. The art of perfect misunderstanding

**17.**** The art of perfect misunderstanding**

Sherlock folded his arms under his neck and stretched out on the bed. He moved his muscles cautiously, to ease the tensions.

He was weary to the bone.

With a grimace he remembered his former habits. He'd never been tired, he'd never eaten – well, at least much less often, much less frequently than other persons. It had been one of John Watson's marvels that a body should function under these Spartan conditions.

Holmes could no longer deny that the last - almost - five years had changed that. Being forced into a life averse to his very nature had left its mark on him, physically and mentally. It was more than obvious - the useless, repetitive ruminations, the forced idleness and endlessly dragged out hours had eroded vital parts of him.

Take, for example, the journey from Souzhou to London.

It had been a long, arduous flight, especially as Sherlock had not been allowed to leave the plane during intermediate stops. Nonetheless, when it came to an end, it had been way too early in his eyes.

He'd taken great pains to hide his nervousness but he failed miserably. When the descent began he grabbed the armrests so hard, his knuckles stood out white. Once, when he been his old self, such a mistake would have been beneath him. Today, his mind was in too much turmoil.

He was envious of Chang's outer calm. Blast the tranquil harmony the man virtually radiated. Let it be a singular promotion or the order to commit Seppukku, the Chinese would take both with the same quiet serenity!

No, Seppukku, that had been Japan.

Whatever.

Who cared.

What _did_ trouble Sherlock, though was that he'd falsely trusted in himself.

_Again_, as he could add.

He'd thought he'd taken his final leave from all his hopes, his wishes, his self-respect.

Especially as the latter had been sadly misplaced.

When it had really mattered, when Moriarty had reached out to lay his filthy hands on Sherlock's friends and brother, the great Detective had not only been unable to keep them safe. He had himself become an instrument of their destruction. This he could neither forget nor forgive himself.

Just as well that he would be prosecuted for it. Punished. Just as well that no decent person would want to know him anymore.

Sherlock felt that he deserved nothing better. He _had_ come to terms with that. He really had.

And yet his heart beat in his throat and his hands were cold and sweaty.

It was one thing to imagine what he deserved and another thing to conjure up what this punishment would mean.

True enough he had long since lost count of all the doors which had been locked behind him, of how often he had been bound or handcuffed or chained or drugged or beaten.

And yet something was different about the idea of being led into a British Court, asked, no, forced to explain the inexplicable, to reveal what he had done. How he had felt. Why he hadn't fought harder. Tried harder. Been smarter.

The imagined voices of prosecutor and judge already droned in his ears. Why had he obeyed Moriarty's every whim? Why hadn't he escaped? Why never called for help? If he had wanted to protect his brother, why had he betrayed him? And all these photos of him and his alleged captor. Laughing. Under tropic trees. In posh hotels.

The judge would doubtlessly try to hide his mirth.

The prosecutor would sneer openly: Who wouldn't wish for such holidays. How gracious of the evil criminal to pay for all that. It didn't fit, did it? The accused did not really expect the jury to believe him, did he?

And why didn't anyone testify for the accused? Those people he mentioned, a police officer, a respectable lady, a young woman of his acquaintance …... where were they? Or this army surgeon. Perhaps the accused was lying? Perhaps these people had never existed? Perhaps they were ashamed they'd ever met him? Wouldn't he better confess and get it over with? Save the jury time and trouble?

In the end, Sherlock knew he _would_ confess.

Not the truth, as the truth wasn't believable.

But what they _wanted_ to be the truth.

Some plain, superficial story of how he had been a coward and a greedy idiot, how the siren call of Moriarty's wealth and power had been too overwhelming and how in the end it had been stronger than anything else. Stronger than his pride, his self-esteem, his love for his brother, his affection for his friends and any common decency. The story of how he'd abandoned it all willingly, for a few coins thrown by a rich criminal who had nothing better to do than to spoil a human pet dog to death.

This the jury _would_ believe. That was the kind of lie their imagination could believe to be true.

As the truth was so much more complicated, so much less convenient, it stood no chance.

And after that confession ...

Sherlock's vivid imagination ran away with him as he thought about spending the rest of his life in a prison cell, with two or three or more strangers, day after day, night after night, cramped in on a few square metres. Never alone, never unwatched, whatever he did.

And boredom. The great, inescapable emptiness of captivity. The nothingness.

He had tasted it in Moriarty's house but there, during all the horrible months and years, things had still been different. In a perverse way, gags and chains and beatings notwithstanding, he _had_ been pampered. He knew that. He wouldn't want to relive a single day in James' hold and yet – there was worse to come.

There would be nothing to mitigate the horror in a real prison. Not even the knowledge – no, the pretence - that he was going through this to protect other people from harm.

Sherlock knew he had been hyperventilating in the moment he'd thought that. If he hadn't heard it himself Chang's worried look would have told him.

Concern. What business did Chang have, feeling concerned for a foreigner? It wasn't as if they were brothers...

Mistake, Sherlock! Foolish, foolish mistake.

At once, as inevitably as involuntarily Sherlock's mind conjured up the image of Mycroft's last moments. Moriarty triggered that first chip and then... the gruesome pain, the cramps, the vomiting... It would've taken days before it was finally over. Mental decline would've come long before unconsciousness, longer even before death.

James had made sure that his captive knew any detail of the chip's functions by heart. Based on that, Sherlock's fantasy spared him nothing.

In the beginning of his agony, for many an hour, Mycroft would've known exactly what was happening to him. And who was responsible.

Panic was like a big, hot wave that washed over Sherlock, drowned him... with all his might he fought for self-control.

Blessedly, the lifelong habit of restraining his emotions had been persistent in the end.

When the plane touched the ground in London the breach in Sherlock's hull had been sealed off. He had once more felt safe behind his outer show of indifference. As long as he could keep that up he would still have a room to hide in. And if he were to lose this room – it wasn't the first time in his life he'd rely on the security of death as a way out where all other escape routes were closed.

True, James Moriarty had found a way to close that route, too.

But the Criminal Mastermind was gone.

And a common jailer wasn't James Moriarty.

One last deep shuddering breath and Sherlock stood, ready for anything.

"Now you are impatient after all" Chang had said. He was chuckling but, to Sherlock's dismay, it wasn't completely free of pity.

Holmes saw his situation crystal clear. What was left of Mycroft's staff had a keen interest in hushing the shameful affair up, which they could hardly achieve with Sherlock being under somebody else's control. If necessary, they would shift all the blame to the late Mycroft Holmes' prodigal brother, which also cried for a hold over this same brother.

Therefore Sherlock was about to be sold to his prosecutors in exchange for some intelligence, for some favour, of one kind or the other – it made no difference to him. What was going to happen would happen; there was nothing he could do.

'Lucky Cat's' task was to make the best of this deal, for his country, and for himself. God knew the man needed a success.

So why the hell couldn't Chang handle this situation like the business deal it was? If Holmes was just a piece of merchandise, he'd much preferred being treated as such.

Instead the Professor kept banging on about how he'd brought together some information which, apparently, should help Sherlock 'to clear his name'.

How could a man in his line of work, of his age and experience be so childishly naïve when it came to British politics? Mycroft Holmes was dead. Nobody else would even dream of clearing Sherlock's name. Period!

And yet, Professor Chang fingered his precious 'dossier' in his bag even now.

The door opened, the gangway came. It was time for 'Lucky Cat' to find a gracious exit from the awkward situation. "This is good-bye then, Mr. Holmes. I trust all will be well."

"Yes, fine" Sherlock answered brusquely. Instead of leaving it at that, as he had been firmly resolved to do, he suddenly pressed on. "Farewell, Professor Chang, I thank you... I know I haven't been the easiest of charges. Thanks for your patience. Good luck."

"For both of us" Tse-Dong had said before he left.

The guards had had no need to look so alerted. Holmes had no intention of leaving the plane one second sooner than he absolutely had to.

However, his hopes for some last moments of quiet solitude had been premature.

Someone entered the plane and Sherlock found himself face to face with a sombre looking man in a dark blue suit, white shirt and grey tie. Ridiculously conservative an attire for someone that young, if it hadn't been a dead give-away. Mycroft had worn that 'uniform' too, albeit in a more fashionable, much more expensive version. Cashmere and silk instead of polyester and nylon.

Sherlock swallowed hard. No further thinking of his brother, he vowed to himself. Yet he found this a vow hard to live up to, as this young man's appearance screamed "Secret Service" all over.

Besides, he was vaguely familiar. Uninvited and unwelcome, Sherlock's memory delivered the information that Mycroft had once brought this man to Baker Street for tea. "A colleague of mine, Sherlock. Thought you could perhaps help him. He's in a terrible mess." Behind elder brother's usual nonchalant and slightly sarcastic demeanour a furtively insistent gaze, a nervous smile. "_Don't let me down, Sherlock_."

John had taken an instant liking to the young agent. But then, John liked everyone. Except, Sherlock was sure, his onetime flatmate who had ruined his life.

_No thinking of John Watson either. Bad for composure. Can't be afforded. Not now. Not ever._

But then, even Sherlock Holmes' well-ordered Mind Palace could have a mind of its own.

Mrs Hudson had cleaned the agent's jacket after Lestrade had unintentionally spilled his tea. They had all laughed, at least until Sherlock had said he found the case boring and not worth his time. Lestrade had been angry afterwards. He'd told Sherlock in no uncertain terms that Mycroft wanted to show off his little brother's abilities to his colleagues because that was Mycroft's way of saying that he was proud of him...

_Stop it, Sherlock, damn you, __**stop it**__!_

"Perhaps you remember me, Mr Holmes. Carruthers. Peter Carruthers. I've come to see if you're well."

Suddenly an absurd hope flared up inside Sherlock like a straw fire. And, like a straw fire, it fell down in ashes just as quickly.

No, it couldn't be.

"I'm perfectly fine" he said. "Thank you."

"If you'd tell me where you're going to stay, I could…."

"I'm sorry, Mr Carruthers, but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't do any good to either of us. I'm made to understand that there's an agreement in place. I suggest we stick to it."

"Indeed" Chang's female assistant, a woman of outstanding ugliness, had added. "Mr Holmes is presently a guest of the Chinese embassy, until his …. status is revalidated."

"Mr. Holmes is a British citizen, the fact needs no revalidation" the agent replied, most kindly. "And this _is_ British soil, Madam."

'Cherry Blossom' was adamant. "All arrangements for this visit have been made by our authorities, well in advance. Your government agreed that we could act on our own discretion."

Carruthers looked at Sherlock, questioningly. Whatever he expected, a protest, perhaps, or at least a sign of anxiety, he didn't get it. Holmes just kept quiet and passive, his face blank.

Finally the agent had just shrugged and left. Now it had been Li Gong's turn to stare at Sherlock bewilderedly.

Half an hour later, a car had come for the remainder of the 'Chinese' delegation and brought them to the place where they 'would wait for further developments' – a nice enough phrase Chang had come up with, as Sherlock thought with a sarcastic grin.

The things we do for the sake of appearances. Like Li Gong's protest to Carruthers. As if any Chinese staff car could leave this airfield without being followed. Once their prey had come into reach of their clutches, the Secret Service would not leave Sherlock Holmes out of their sight again.

After their arrival Holmes heaved a sigh of relief when Chang's people left him alone but just a few moments later he wished they'd stayed to pester him.

For the vicious circle of thoughts and feelings started all over again.

Sherlock didn't know if he'd ever felt more miserable in his life.

His one, fervent hope was that 'Lucky Cat' would finish his deal quickly and at least this waiting would be over.

Unfortunately, only a few hours after he'd left his 'guest', Chang was in no better shape than Sherlock.

To say that the Chinese agent felt betrayed would've been a gross euphemism. Which was worse, the old fears were back to turn his stomach into a tight knot.

Tonight's welcoming reception of the British-Chinese Archaeological Society was therefore pure torture for the Professor. Luckily nobody noticed how tensed he was. Nobody but Cherry Blossom who gave him the occasional punitive look that normally indicated she feared for or because of him. Chang wondered whether, after all these years, his assistant still saw a difference between the two.

However, his assistant couldn't help him now.

With his partly grateful, partly indulgent smile firmly in place Chang used the never-ending speeches that preceded dinner to – for the hundredth time – relive the conversation he'd had earlier.

He'd had such high hopes in the beginning.

During the flight, he had browsed through the schedule for his visit, the negotiations, the various receptions, the guest lists. A great tamasha considering that Prof. Dr. Chang's official purpose in London was the purchase of some minor artefacts for the archaeological institute in Souzhou.

He'd been greeted by staff of the Chinese embassy and by a high-ranking British delegation from various ministries and other organisations. All had paid their respects. For an elderly, second-rate archaeologist, it was the most flattering welcome.

Of course for 'Lucky Cat' there had been only one really important person in the whole mob of eagerly chatting wannabes. A young man who at first hadn't said anything at all. Only when all the others had put in their tuppence worth the man had introduced himself. "Carruthers, Sir. Peter Carruthers. I'm to make sure that your attendants are all right and well looked after."

Noticing the immediate irritation in the face of the Chinese Vice-Ambassador, Chang had not hesitated. "This will hardly be necessary" he'd said. "However, far be it from me to hinder you in your duties, Mr Carruthers. Will ten minutes suffice?"

"Doubtlessly, Sir."

And indeed, less than ten minutes later the young man had left the plane again. He'd taken his leave with impeccable politeness, but with a face, long as a fiddle.

Hilarious at this confirmation of high British interest in what - no,_ whom_ - he had to offer, Chang had leaned back in the comfortable seat of the embassy's limousine.

Somewhat later the Professor had been greeted very deferentially by the Chinese ambassador. If he'd heard anything about Chang's latest difficulties, he kept it to himself. "Your visitor awaits" he said. "In the green chamber."

Chang hastened his steps a bit. It couldn't be _that_ easy, could it? Things developed like a fairy tale, as if someone had cast a magic spell. He entered and indeed, the visitor rose from one of the seats, unwittingly straightening his jacket as he came to attention.

"Dr. Watson, what a pleasure" Chang said and, a thing he never did voluntarily, took the other's hand and shook it, with a grip surprisingly strong for such a tiny, skeletal hand.

"You're alone?" John asked. He spoke softly, but his anger was unmistakable.

"Here, yes. We do not host our guests in our embassies, you know. It could lead to ….. misunderstandings."

"Misunderstandings, aha" John retorted, rubbing his nose and brow. A displacement activity he often showed, Chang noted. "Misunderstandings as to the nature of their stay?"

"Diplomatic service has its own rules and laws" 'Lucky Cat' answered lightly. "We should leave it at that."

"Should we?"

"Indeed, for I have more pressing business to attend to." Chang took the dossier from his bag and gave it to Watson. "I had no chance to hand it over to the right hands at the airport. Please do it for me, will you? And tell your employer" here Chang's demeanour changed from polite to stern "this mystery game at the airport was all nice and well but I insist to meet him in person. There's much to discuss. First of all the price for the …. delivery I'm willing to make!"

"I wish I knew what you're talking about."

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about, Dr. Watson. After all you've been working with him for years. I expect him to meet with me within the next 48 hours. Or the deal is off."

"Professor..."

"He won't risk a scandal, would he. The media would be involved. It would grieve me if they were involved in a manner less than favourable to the _British_ government!" Chang, who inwardly squirmed with awkwardness because he was so very blunt, now expected an equally open and aggressive reaction from his counterpart.

But no.

Watson was a perfect picture of baffled bewilderment. "I do not know …..."

The Professor was exasperated. These Europeans. No idea of how to handle sensitive negotiations. "I'm sorry for being rude but your compatriots have taken great trouble in preparing our negotiations about these statues and we Chinese hate to be late. You must excuse me."

"What the hell do you want?" John yelled and, against his will, Chang admired the tenacity. As if the doctor had never revealed his true identity as an agent of Mycroft's on the airfield.

Amused 'Lucky Cat' realized that he, the great genius of Intelligence work, was again in danger of falling for Watson's act. This utterly inconspicuous surgeon, so lean, so definitely _not_ tall or impressing, so ordinary, always in the shadow of his brilliant friend, was the _perfect_ spy!

"Dr. Watson, we both know your employer's sent me an SMS. Unsigned, yet with his personal signature all over it. I _must_ meet with him, anything else is garnish without the fish." Tse-Dong inhaled deeply. "I've made a more than generous advance payment with this dossier, as you sure see."

Still with a confused demeanour, John just stared at him.

Not for the life of him Chang could understand why Watson would take this charade so very far. "One last word of advice, doctor. Your employer can send a herd of nannies to pat little brother's hand. If I'm crossed, it'll do him no good!"

All of a sudden, John's eyes went wide. And wider. Until they seemed to fall from his face. "You mean... the man you want to meet is _Mycroft_? Mycroft Holmes?"

"Who else?" Chang almost shook his head. Please, really, this was taking it too far.

"But he's dead. Mycroft's dead. Died three days after you took Sherlock. His brain …... Christ, doesn't Sherlock _know_ yet?"

All of a sudden, Chang looked sick. He was deeply offended by being taken for a fool. He turned on his heel, the door clapped and the doctor was alone.

The last thing 'Lucky Cat' saw and heard of Watson was his image in a mirror, rubbing his face once more, muttering to himself. A quote from Goethe's 'Faust', if Chang remembered correctly. "A_nd here, poor fool, I stand once more, no wiser than I was before_."

With one, cruel and crushing blow the single sentence shattered Chang's conviction that Watson had been lying.

This was it, then.

Mycroft _was_ dead.

Carruthers, no doubt, had come to the airport just to find out if the embarrassing 'merchandise' was really aboard. Out of sight. And to make sure it _stayed _out of sight.

Lucky Cat had come to England with a prize object in his possession. A prize object that, as it turned out, wasn't worth a farthing.

What now? What on earth should he do now?

When the reception finally dragged towards its end, Chang wasn't any closer to an answer than he had been before.

In the car, on their way back to the embassy, Tse-Dong was grateful that 'Cherry Blossom' had taken the driver's seat instead of the embassy's chauffeur. He could let down his mask for a moment. Look as weary and defeated as he felt.

Belatedly he noticed that she had taken a wrong turn. "Left" he snarled in Chinese. "You should have turned left to the embassy!"

"We're not going to the embassy, we're going to Colonel Tsong's" she retorted firmly, in the somewhat coarser dialect of her home province. He hated this dialect, as she well knew.

Chang's reaction was harsher than usual "You're making free with me now? Who do you think you are?"

"He never told you, did he?" she asked back, not in the least intimidated. "How he knew his brother was dead, or that there was no chip in his neck. More than six months he's been in your hands and you never made him tell you anything."

"You're overstepping your limits. _I'm_ head of the department."

"Alas, the department is about to be made a head shorter" Li Gong said drily. With a jerk she stopped in front of the house of the Military Attaché of the Chinese embassy. "Time to get some answers, Professor."

The Professor sat still for an instant. His time-honoured instincts and his respect for the chain of command yelled at him to crush this rebellion in its infancy.

His gaze met Li Gong's in the driver's mirror.

Chang Tse-Dong got out of the car and approached Colonel Tsong's residence.

With all outer signs of humility and submission, Cherry Blossom followed unobtrusively, two steps behind her superior.

"_Women_" the Professor thought helplessly.

He had, however, no chance to dwell on the thought much longer.

Tsong received them in the foyer.

The Colonel seemed untypically nervous. "We've been waiting for you" he said immediately once the inevitable greetings had been exchanged. "Where have you been?"

Chang cocked a brow. What an insolent question! Military Attaché or no, he still outranked Tsong by more than one level. "Shall we go in?" he asked curtly and, without waiting for an invitation, showed himself into the living room.

As he had deduced that the Colonel's 'we' could only refer to Sherlock, 'Lucky Cat' wasn't much surprised to see the shape of another man in one of the fauteuils in front of the fire place. "Mr Holmes" he said with forced casualness "I hope you are…"

Whilst he was still speaking, the other rose and the light fell on his pale face.

For a second Chang thought a fatal heart attack would spare him the trouble of committing suicide, here and now. "You…." he stammered awkwardly.

He felt his ears get red, felt that his shock was visible and suddenly the loss of face was unendurable. Chang darted round to face Li Gong. "You knew" he accused her, with a wrath totally out of character. "You knew all along."

"I did _not_ know" she said sternly. "Or I would've told you. I just had hopes. I _always_ hope until I can't."

Colonel Tsong found this an appropriate moment to leave the three of them alone.

Perhaps because he felt embarrassed by the situation he'd created, the stranger ignored the Professor. "Miss Li?" he asked instead.

"_Cherry Blossom_" she gave him her alias in Chinese. "And I presume I'm talking to…."

"Holmes" he said quickly. "Mycroft Holmes. Pleased to meet you."


	18. A special piece of research

**18****. ****A special piece of research**

"Coffee, Doktor?" Demirkan asked, with a compassionate smile. "Or rather a Kognak?"

John cleared his throat. "Double, please. Or perhaps a triple would be best."

"Thought that much. Ist schon im Zulauf!"

Indeed, barely two minutes later John had a big cognac in his left hand and a plate with a formidable sandwich in front of him.

"He can be a handful, can't he?" the Oberstleutnant said conversationally. "Mr Holmes?"

"_Which one_?" Watson thought angrily. The encounter with Mycroft, brief, unsatisfying and mysterious, had left him in a pessimistic mood.

Truth be told, John felt used. Ridiculed. And most of all not one step closer to helping Sherlock – still the only Holmes he cared about – than before.

He'd told Mycroft everything. How much 'Lucky Cat' desired to see him. That Sherlock's freedom, most probably his life, depended on this meeting. That unfortunately he'd not been able to find out anything about Sherlock's current situation.

"Well, I'll see if I can make the time to meet my old friend Chang. Now you must excuse me, John. Some urgent business to attend to." An arrogant, if a bit pinched, smile and Mycroft Holmes was under way. "Herr Oberstleutnat, bitte nehmen Sie sich meines Freundes an. Er sollte nicht spazieren gehen. Das Klima in London ist ihm gegenwärtig wenig zuträglich!"

„My pleasure, Sir."

Superfluous to say that Demirkan had taken the order to keep Dr Watson exactly where he was very literally. John's plan to go out and search for Sherlock – how and where he had no idea – was a no-go. So was, as it turned out, Dr. Watson himself.

As a consequence, though Mycroft's outrageous indifference still made his blood boil, John found he was quite powerless for the moment. Which did nothing to heighten his spirits. The unfortunate Oberstleutnant was the only available punching ball, so John bawled the German officer out. "How do you fit into this …. whatever it is you call this madness, operation, game, mission…."

Watson didn't really expect an answer but Demirkan was quite relaxed, now that his charge had obviously given up the thought of leaving this office anytime soon. With the callousness his job so often required, the German just switched mode from stern jailer to kind host. "My colleagues – I'm with the German Intelligence Service BND, as you surely have guessed – searched Mortimer Harrungate's villa in Berlin" he explained ungrudgingly.

John yelped with surprise "Mortimer Harrungate lived in _Berlin_?"

"Yes, for years. Made trips to Asia, America - lots of places, but he lived in Berlin, with his family and staff" Demirkan said, clearly puzzled. "You know Harrungate, Doktor?"

"Yes" John almost bit his tongue. Moriarty's continental alias was known to him since his time in Macao. But that Sherlock had obviously been held in Germany, in Berlin, only a few kilometres from the main station where John Watson had travelled through on his way to and from Rügen – that was a blow. Like a kick in the stomach.

"Strictest orders from extremely high up to work as fast as possible" Demirkan chatted on, ignoring the – to him – incomprehensible reaction. "All evidence had to be transported to a certain address in Berlin with the highest possible expediency."

The Oberstleutnant raised his hands "you know _us_ Germans…" - he laid a comical emphasis on the word 'us' - "we're a disciplined lot, very obedient." He grinned good-naturedly. "When our British comrades-in-arms contacted us, asking if we could provide them with copies of the material, we realized we'd worked in such haste, we hadn't _made_ copies. Shameful for an Intelligence Service, is it not. Therefore, when Mr Holmes told me he could make up for our blunder if we did him a small favour for which he, for whatever reason, does not like to use his own people – voila!"

"Voila what?" John snarled, clearly at the end of his tether.

Demirkan frowned. "You aren't very well versed in our line of work, Doktor."

"I'm a somewhat slow learner!"

"Mycroft told me where I could find you and the dossier. I should bring you here …."

"And what exactly is 'here'?"

"The building belongs to us" the German said angrily, as if he'd been forced to state the very obvious.

"So the German Secret Service….."

"Please, Doktor, _Intelligence_ Service."

"So the German Whatever Service spies on the British. In London!"

"Doktor Watson, we're extremely shorthanded. Please trust me. We've got field offices only where we need them. By the way, shall I give you the addresses of the MI 6 branch offices in Berlin?"

"One great happy family of spies."

"Exactly. We're all friends here. So, if you let me have the dossier, you can watch the videos stored on these DVDs whilst the computer copies them. The papers and photographs ….." he flipped through the lot "well, that shouldn't take long, you can have them back in half an hour." He grinned again, like a happy boy. "We've finally got new machines. Only took us five years. The things work miracles."

John couldn't let go of his irritation, right now it was too precious to him. It kept his back stiff and his head erect. "Why should I want to watch these videos?"

"Because Mr Holmes said so. Besides – you're not in the least bit curious?" Demirkan's dark brown eyes glittered as they caught the light of a sunray that filtered through the by now half lowered jalousie. "My colleagues must have delivered the dossier from the Harrungate villa to the Chinese. Now a very high ranking British agent, who's been in the centre of an awful scandal not too long ago, pushes our noses on you. You, a non-player, have access to information a man like Mycroft Holmes couldn't get. And you aren't curious?"

Watson had no wish to discuss his underdeveloped curiosity. "Where's Mycroft now?"

"Visiting someone."

"Whom?"

"I do not need to know, therefore I do not want to know. I'm not on the case, I'm here for the Harrungate material and nothing else. I will start with the dossier, with or without you watching it. May I have the folders now?"

Watson handed the dossier over. One of the photographs fell out. Sherlock's smiling face looked at him from the table. How came that he'd not seen at first sight how strained this smile was?

"_What has he done to you, Sherlock? You stubborn, arrogant, annoying dick, how could he make you play along with that?_"

"Perhaps" Watson said hoarsely "I should have a look at these DVDs after all."

"By all means, Doktor" Demirkan laughed. "You've no chance to watch all of it today, must be lots and lots of data stored on these little beauties. _And_ there's a huge mobile hard-disk in the second folder. Only a handful of papers, though. Reminds me of a research report I once saw. Gigabytes of data on the discs, almost nothing printed. My boss hated it, he prefers paper. A bit old-fashioned, the man."

A while later John Watson, frozen to his seat by terror and disbelief, could only marvel at the Oberstleutnant's keen instincts.

For this was indeed a research report.

Almost five years ago, James Moriarty had started these recordings with an introduction. Smilingly, patiently he explained that he was about to embark on a very special experiment. How he had decided that he needed a companion, that Sherlock was the only one suitable, that he therefore had kidnapped the Detective and that he would turn his prisoner into an obedient, loyal follower. He was pretty much looking forward to his experiment.

The goal was to make Sherlock accept – and internalize – that he belonged to James Moriarty.

"My greatest achievement" as the criminal phrased it "will be to have Sherlock Holmes by my side as a willing and cooperative associate and friend. For that, I will invest all my considerable powers and I'm confident that I will succeed against all odds. For that …."

For that, from the first to the last days of Sherlock's captivity every sound, every look, every movement had been recorded. 24/7.

A small, choice collection of these recordings was gathered on the discs in the dossier.

Just the highlights.

I. e., the moments in which Moriarty had made progress.

The first chapter covered Sherlock's 'stay' in an old-fashioned manor house in France. As James said in the preface: "You see, at first I had to teach my new friend that escape wasn't possible."

With a self-satisfied smugness that was hard to endure, Moriarty explained how he had repeatedly faked holes in his security net.

Normally Sherlock would surely have seen them for what they were – ruses and traps to first revive his hopes only to crush them all the more thoroughly later on.

But James took great care that his captive was _not_ up to his usual standards of observing and deducting. He'd begun his game only _after_ Holmes' resilient physique had been suitably weakened by exhaustion, starvation and dehydration.

Nevertheless, Sherlock's third – and last – attempt to escape from his cellar prison had almost been successful. "I was truly terrified" Moriarty said in his comment, still shaking at the memory. His men had recaptured their prey in the forest outside the estate, only minutes away from a much frequented restaurant.

They'd brought Holmes back to his cell, bound, gagged, stripped nude, and flogged the living daylights out of him.

The army surgeon in Watson marvelled at the quality of the workmanship No broken bones, no torn ligaments or other permanent damage except for the scars the leather whips would cause.

It was just pain. Excruciating pain. Until the victim couldn't stand upright anymore.

Moriarty came into the scene only after his brutes had left. It was his custom, as John was about to find out. In this dressage, he was keener than ever to keep his own hands clean whenever he could. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I never wanted it to be like this."

Holmes flinched when Moriarty undid the gag but he was far from subdued. Breathless, shaking, he somehow found the strength to dart upwards, knocking his captor over in the process. His foot hit James' stomach faster than the criminal could react.

Alas, the kick didn't hit home with full force and the second attempt was Holmes' undoing. Moriarty caught the ankle, turned it and brought his opponent down again. With Jim's knee on his spine and fist in his neck it was clear that Sherlock wouldn't get up again.

"You really are a pain in the ass, Sherlock Holmes" James panted, face contorted by pain and his free hand rubbing his stomach. "Why I keep you around I don't know."

"Feel free to end this any time you want!"

"You're sure you're not enjoying this?"

"Your idea of a good time is not necessarily mine!"

"You're a bad mannered guest, Holmes."

"Small wonder. Like yourself, your establishment is third rate at best."

James grinned and rose. "Trying to provoke me, dear friend? It's a bit difficult with your face in the dirt, isn't it." He grabbed Sherlock's cuffed hands and pulled him up, hard, almost dislocating the shoulders.

As the light fell on the bloody bruises James tut-tutted worriedly. "Did I ever tell you how much it hurts me to see you in such a state?"

"Just a hundred times. It doesn't become believable by repetition." The defiant words were meant as a façade to hide what Holmes really felt, and they did a good job.

Yet as Moriarty grabbed his chin to turn him, Sherlock's face came into the centre of the camera's focus; mercilessly exposed.

There was despair lurking behind the green eyes' vengeful glare. Despair and defeat. He had come _that_ close to escaping this time. So damned close, and it had all been for nothing.

He wasn't broken, not yet. But this struggle had been the last one for a very long time.

True, it needed a John Watson to see it in him.

Or a James Moriarty. He, too, was close to his target now. His voice became gentle, warm, without the cutting sarcasm. "Why do you force me to punish you? Why, Sherlock? You know I can't live without you."

"You're nuts. What do I care for your sick fantasies?"

The criminal sighed sadly and let go of Sherlock's face. "You do not _want_ to understand. There's no use explaining it to you, again and again. You leave me no choice."

Moriarty called for his men and they pressed the captive to the ground despite his struggling. "Cut the tendons in his knees. He'll never run again."

"Sir?" their leader, whom John recognized as Colonel Sebastian Moran, asked back. Obviously unsure if this was meant seriously.

"You heard me. Get on with it."

Only when the knife cut through the skin Holmes shouted "No!" and Moran, still not convinced that his boss would not make him pay for an order that had never been meant to be executed, stopped at once.

James smiled melancholically. "What was that, Sherlock?"

"No! Don't….."

"No _what_, Sherlock?"

"Damn you!"

"No _what_, Sherlock?"

"No… no, _please_."

John closed his eyes briefly. "_I've never begged for mercy in my life_" he heard Sherlock say in his memory. Firm, strong, and utterly convinced that he would never beg.

Moriarty could have ended the cruel game once he'd heard what he'd craved to hear but naturally he wouldn't do that. "How could I spare you?" he asked instead. "You do not spare me any pain either. I want to be your friend and how do you repay me? With insults, by running away."

Unbelievably, James sounded genuinely hurt. Insulted and disappointed.

This wasn't faked, John realized. This was real. The criminal felt truly and honestly wronged.

"Go ahead" Moriarty told his helpmates.

Moran rose and pressed the knife into the hand of one of his men. With a pointed look at Moriarty, he left the scene and did not come back.

The brute put the knife to Sherlock's left knee again. The tip slipped under the skin a bit deeper than before.

"Moriarty, don't. I promise…."

"You promise, Mr Holmes?"

"I won't try anything again. I promise."

"You're sure? You know, it wouldn't hurt _that_ much. And we could put all this awkward distrust behind us." James caressed Holmes' sweaty chest with his foot. "Think about it, no chains, no locked doors – wouldn't that be nice?"

"You can trust me _now_, Moriarty ….."

"_James_. I've told you my name, again and again. _J__-__a__-__m__-__e__-__s_!"

"James. Please…"

Moriarty shook his head "I don't know. I must think about it." He let his prisoner rise and waited until Sherlock looked at him before he continued. "We'll stop for now, maybe we go on later. I've not yet made up my mind. Until I do, good night Sherlock!"

James walked towards the door and, as by a last second thought, he turned towards his men. "Before I forget: Real security from now on. No need to play on him any longer. No more faked loopholes! Chain him down."

Sherlock became still, even the panting stopped.

John knew as clearly as if he had been inside his friend's mind what Sherlock was thinking in that moment.

He hadn't known.

Sherlock Holmes had been tricked into trying to run and he hadn't seen it coming.

Moriarty grinned happily. "Chain him down" he repeated lightly and left.

He departed for Berlin that very night and left his prisoner behind, in his henchmen's tender care, for months. In all this time Sherlock never saw the light of day. They kept him chained to the wall by a choke around his neck until James gave order to move him.

First goal accomplished, as Moriarty phrased it. The object was ready for the next level. So this was the end of chapter 1.

The disc jumped back to main menu. Chapter 2 was ready.

"His name is Holmes too? The victim's?"

John flinched at the sound of Demirkan's voice. He had completely forgotten that the German was still there.

"Yes" John finally replied. "Mycroft's brother and my friend!" Suddenly his emotions bubbled out of him. "Satisfied with what you've got here, Oberstleutnant? Choice material to school your people, is it not?"

The German bristled with indignity. "This is not what we're looking for. There are some unsolved cases of organised crime we think Harrungate – Moriarty obviously – is connected with. We do not need a lesson in torture techniques."

"I'm sure you don't."

"Doktor, what do you take us for…."

"Would you please leave me alone now, Herr Oberstleutnant!" It wasn't a request from Watson and it didn't sound like one.

Demirkan hesitated "You're sure you want to see more?"

"I _am_ sure. Besides, his brother wanted me to see this, didn't he?"

The German was silent for a moment. "I wonder" he then said quietly, "why anyone should want you to watch your friend being tortured?"

John turned on his seat and stared at the officer. "Isn't it as plain as a pikestaff? Because Mycroft has no desire to see it himself!"

Only as he said it, Watson knew that it was true. Someone had to go over this, had to see it, to ensure that it had real significance. Why else would Chang have said that this dossier would '_clear Sherlock's name_'?

But naturally Mycroft had guessed what he would see and, like a perfect coward, he had backed out, tail between his legs, and left the nightmare to John Watson.

Demirkan stared at the screen with Moriarty's happily smiling face for a background of the disc's menu. "Bastard" he then said with some heartfelt conviction.

After he'd left Watson wondered which bastard he'd meant.

Moriarty or Mycroft.


	19. Mind the gap

**1****9****.****Mind the gap**

Mycroft wasn't the least bit happy about it, but Chang was adamant.

_He_ would inform his 'guest' about the latest developments and nobody else.

As 'Lucky Cat' had envisioned, the younger Holmes wasn't in too good a mood either but, unlike his brother, he was not inclined to hide it. "I take it you've got your pound of flesh, Professor?"

"If you want to call it that" Chang replied. "Although I must say, if I had sold you by weight it wouldn't have been a lucrative deal. You do no credit to Chinese hospitality."

"I'm sure my compatriots won't mind!"

"I've been assured that there will be no prosecution against you. After all, you've never been officially involved in your brother's….. unfortunate affairs."

"They never were Mycroft's affairs. They were Moriarty's, the Americans', mine, even yours in a way, but never my brother's. It's just that he was the only one who paid for them."

"You'll never forgive yourself for your brother's ill fate, will you?"

Until now Sherlock had fired back his answers as quickly and sharply as he could; now he hesitated. "What concern is it of yours?" he finally asked distrustfully. "You've got what you wanted." There was the slightest hint of a question mark in the last part.

Instead of answering, the Professor pulled himself a chair and sat down circuitously. Sherlock frowned angrily "Do we have time for that?"

"There's no rush" Chang said kindly. "Not anymore. Unless you're in a hurry to join your fellow Englishmen?"

With an irritated huff, Sherlock turned away to face the window. The one from which, doubtlessly, he must have seen the black British staff car arriving which was waiting for its owner even now.

Chang did not know the house well yet well enough to know that his guest could not have recognized anyone inside the car, just the vehicle itself.

"Well" Chang sighed, glad that he'd regained the initiative in this conversation. "I see you do not believe me, Mr Holmes. Nevertheless, I know for a fact that, even if your compatriots would wish to blame you for any of Mr Moriarty's evil doings, which, as I have every reason to believe, they do not, the British Law would be hard put to make up a case against you."

Sherlock, still with his back to the Chinese, just moved his shoulders silently. The gesture transported more disdain than any verbal retort could have done.

Chang smiled indulgently. "You take me for a fool, my young friend. I know that. You're not the first. But I also know you have no real desire to leave me now, so let me tell you a little story."

"Do I have a choice in that?" Holmes snapped back.

"No, not really."

"Mind if I sit down?"

"Please do" Chang said, warming up to the other's sarcastic fighting spirit. "Well, how should I begin my tale? It's '_once upon a time'_ in most of your fairy tales, is it not? So, once upon a time there was a man, several years younger than me, who married a beautiful, spirited and intelligent young woman. After a few years they had a son and they were very happy, back in Suzhou. The man was a doctor, and a good one, too. Unfortunately he came from a decent but not very wealthy or influential family. He was too proud to take money or favours from his in-laws, and for many years, he luckily did not need more than he earned himself. But then a good friend from his past showed up, in dire straits, and our good doctor felt obliged to help out. To make a long story short….."

Holmes' ironic snort showed his appreciation for that, but Chang ignored it.

"….to make a long story short" the Chinese just repeated "the doctor borrowed the necessary money – and favours - from someone who'd been recommended to him by this very same old friend. Would you believe that the doctor was so very naïve, he never even asked why the friend did not borrow himself?"

"Am I to understand that the doctor brought himself into some kind of trouble with that?" Holmes asked back.

"If you, like me, consider falling prey to the Black Lotus 'trouble', then, yes, he did."

At the mentioning of the Chinese Crime Syndicate he'd once encountered, Sherlock darted round, eyes wide.

"Yes" Chang said "General Chang's Black Lotus. Do I have your attention now?"

Holmes just glared at him but that did not impress the Chinese. "The doctor wasn't the man to withstand such an organisation and the shock of his friend's betrayal came on top of it. But the doctor did not want to aid the Black Lotus either and he chose the way of honour. When the Black Lotus' demands became unbearable, he took his own life."

Without knowing why, Sherlock was touched, but still he refused to show it. "Is there a point to all this?" he said brusquely.

"It is, if you consider that the doctor was my brother-in-law, his wife my little sister and his son my nephew. He's as close to me as my own children. Closer perhaps, for, Mr Holmes, I love my siblings, my little sister above all."

"How nice for you. What an admirable sentiment. Now what?"

"I climbed up the greasy pole of a Secret Service career" Lucky Cat continued, unruffled. "I never forgot that Black Lotus owed my family a life. But for all my skills, for all my successes, for all my powers, General Chang escaped me. Again and again. She was – too well connected, even for me."

"Wait?" Holmes asked, intrigued against his will as a thought struck him "General Chang – she's related to you, too?"

"What, because of the name?" the Professor now grinned openly. "No, Mr Holmes, I'm sorry, but that's just a gross misconception of Chinese family names, as it happens to befall many Westerners. In no possible way General Chang had anything to do with me."

"Ha_d_?" Sherlock asked whilst the tips of his ears grew hot.

"Deals in ancient artwork became Black Lotus' main branch of business. There was no end to General Chang plundering my country's riches and, you see, I do not only _pose_ as an archaeologist and historian in arts. My superiors thought other things far more important for China's future. However, _I_ did not."

Chang made a pause, waiting for any more questions – or insults. As they did not come, he knew that he had finally caught his unwilling listener's interest. "For years I tried to infiltrate the Black Lotus' network for art deals and finally, I did it. I bribed one of General Chang's helpmates. He informed me that the Black Lotus was about to sell a very valuable hairpin on the European market and that it had been stolen."

"The man who took it did not know its value" Sherlock interrupted. "He gave it to his lover, as a good will present."

"It wasn't the pin that interested me, it was the mistake General Chang was about to make. Her one mistake and it cost her everything."

"Which was?"

"She came to Britain, Mr Holmes, to look for the hairpin and to punish the culprits. She came out of her depths, so she needed help. A Consulting Criminal's help."

"She worked with _Moriarty_? God, I guessed he was behind it but I never found proof…."

"Moriarty never told you?"

Sherlock rose and inhaled deeply. "No, he never told me."

"Perhaps he wasn't much interested in dwelling on the many occasions you defeated him and his schemes. Be that as it may….." Lucky Cat ignored his counterpart's cheeks growing red and pale in rapid succession "… You twisted General Chang's plans. She failed. It was something Moriarty would not forgive."

"So she _is_ dead?"

"Yes, Mr Moriarty killed her. Without her, without the protection of her connections, of her knowledge about certain people, her organisation was vulnerable. From the one weak thread I had in my hand, I rolled it up, destroyed it until _nothing _was left. The Black Lotus has paid all bills, to my country and to me and we have you to thank for it."

"That was your first contact with Moriarty?"

"The first time I heard of him, yes. And of my esteemed colleague Mycroft Holmes' extraordinary younger brother. Extraordinary yet weird, even by British standards."

Sherlock shrugged dismissively. His mind was elsewhere. "After that you decided that Moriarty was a danger to your people. Why?"

"I decided that Mr Moriarty was a man to be _watched_. Closely and carefully. It was the submarine weapon system which brought him my _full_ attention. I boxed a few very sensitive noses during my fight against the Black Lotus. Every single one of them smelled roses when Moriarty's American friends betrayed me. Made me lose my face before the Secret Committee."

"You knew that James had nothing to do with the Americans' fraud sale to the alleged Korean agents!"

"Naturally. But to Beijing, this wasn't important. It was Moriarty or me. Simple, isn't it. Indeed, Mr Holmes, _you_ were the only complication."

"Me?" Sherlock could no longer forbear asking.

"Yes, Mr Holmes, you. I owed you a tremendous debt for enabling me to destroy the Black Lotus. And here you were, caught in the middle of it all, defenceless and alone, by no fault of yours. Besides, your brother is – what do you call it in English – a tall poppy?"

Sherlock guffawed, albeit briefly. It was obviously the picture he conjured in his mind, Mycroft Holmes in a poppy's costume. It was enough to even distract him from the – in his own opinion certainly – not very flattering description of his former situation.

"You see, I had it all worked out" Chang explained patiently. "The computer chip system for my superiors, Moriarty's final demise for the British and your restored good name for your brother. That's why I put a strain on some fragile connections I – or rather my service – has to the Germans. _Indirect_ connections, as I may add. I'm telling no awful secrets here, doubtlessly your own people will tell you as much as soon as you've joined them."

Sherlock's newly found interest for Chang's story was clearly wavering at the mentioning of the so far repressed memory of what was in store for him.

So the Professor made haste to come to an end. "My German colleagues collected some material for me; most of it about Moriarty's criminal network and organisation. I beg your pardon for keeping the details to myself; the intelligence is too precious to be squandered to – forgive me – an amateur."

Sherlock winced violently, but kept silent.

"_Now you __**do**__ want to know what I have to say_" Chang thought, amused. "_Enough to swallow even that_!" Aloud he said "for the time being, suffice it to say that you were right. Again! The Consulting Criminal's organisation is dead. The last remains are dusted away as we speak or will be in the near future, if not by me then by others."

"_Mostly_ about the organisation?" Sherlock came back to the preface.

Chang nodded "The rest is about you. I told you I'd brought together a dossier to clear your name. Isn't it a basic principle of your legal system that 'there cannot be accountability where there is no freedom'? I've found proof beyond doubt that you had no freedom whatsoever, no choice was yours to make."

Sherlock's hands reached behind him and grabbed the bedpost. "James recorded what I did!" he stated. "And you watched it."

"He recorded what _he_ did, Mr Holmes. _To_ you. And you shouldn't call him 'James'. After all he wasn't a friend of yours."

Sherlock did not respond to that. "You watched it!" he repeated accusingly.

"So should your friends have done by now. Doctor Watson's had ample time, I handed him the dossier this morning, and we're way past midnight now."

Holmes' face was a deadly white grimace. "What was that you said… " he replied hoarsely "about losing one's face in front of the wrong people?"

"I assumed you'd feel that way but it couldn't be helped. Spring came early to Suzhou this year. Chinese New Year will be only Friday next week. I'll enjoy it very much this time. All my debts are paid. To _anyone_."

Something happened in Sherlock's features. A peculiar sight, as if his inner thoughts had somehow been turned inside out to wander across his face at will. "He's alive" he whispered, clearly not trusting his own words, searching for reassurance from Chang. "Mycroft is alive!"

"Wouldn't it have been too awkward if it had been _him _who told you about the dossier and its content?"

The Professor side-stepped only just in time when Sherlock ran past him and downstairs.

Chang rolled his eyes to the ceiling, another thing he almost never did. "And _that's_ to be one of Europe's fastest minds!" he muttered, chuckling a bit whilst stepping out on the gallery that led to the stairs.

"_You_ can talk, old friend" Colonel Tsong said from behind. "I would want to see _your_ reactions had you been in his place. It was strong stuff you gave him."

"Watching my back from the off again? Just in case our young confused friend does something foolish?" the Professor asked, relieved to be able to talk Chinese again. "Believe me, he's far too smart for that."

"I always watch over you. My duty as a friend. But as I've said before, you're an insensitive person."

"How come you always berate me" Chang said. "I'm three years your senior, I outrank you…."

"Yes, yes, it was you who pushed through my promotion, my position here in London and heaven knows what not. And it was you, not I, who avenged my brother's death on the Black Lotus" Tsong interrupted. "If I lived to a hundred, I could never repay you. What a miserable New Year it's going to be for me."

Chang lowered his gaze. "You always make me feel bad" he complained.

"Misery wants company" Tsong replied. "Not all British proverbs are foolish. Not all British are either. Neither are all Chinese women."

Chang looked up sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Li Gong took it upon her to let me know that I'm going to have another grandnephew or -niece soon!"

"I'm going to find a solution for that" Chang said heatedly. "He's my sister's son after all."

"You will leave this to _me_!" Tsong insisted. "Our wayward Lieutenant is my brother's son, too. _M__y_ family will take responsibility, for mother _and_ child. Your sister's daughter-in-law can sleep in peace. It's all she does as far as I know…"

Chang was about to take the quarrel to the next level when an unexpected commotion came from downstairs and both men went to the living-room, hastily.

Mycroft Holmes stood inside, near the door, and held his bleeding nose with both hands. A furious yet silent Anthea stood by his side – now why could no female assistant ever obey the order to stay in the car? Chang wondered, and not for the first time – and an even more furious yet not at all silent younger brother in front of him.

"How the hell could you make him do this" Sherlock shouted at the top of his lungs. "How dare you do this to him? Haven't you hurt him enough already? I swear Mycroft, I could…." His fists swinging by his sides spoke eloquently of what he meant.

"Professor, please, could you…." Anthea hissed through gritted teeth.

Yet it was Cherry Blossom who followed her drift and so it happened that Sherlock, who'd entered the house as a – at least technically – prisoner but like a free man now left it by Mycroft's side but with both hands cuffed behind his back.

"Didn't you say they're _brothers_? And that they'd go through hell and back for each other?" Tsong asked the Professor, a bit confused.

"They are" Chang answered. "And would you believe it? They love each other deeply."

"No, I would _not _believe that" Tsong snorted derisively. "They sure hide it to perfection."

"I suppose it's mostly tactics on Mycroft Holmes' side" Chang shrugged. "In his position letting people know about his affection for his brother would be an unaffordable weakness."

"And the younger one?"

"I do not know what's happened between them in the past" Lucky Cat answered. "But I do know what's driving him now."

"What is it?" the Colonel asked with genuine curiosity.

Tse-Dong looked at him. "You said you could never repay me. In truth it's I who could never make it up to you."

Tsong frowned, uncomprehending.

"Young Mr Holmes is driven by the same fury that drove me until I had Black Lotus destroyed" Chang said. "The fury that haunted me since your brother died because I hadn't seen it coming when I should have."

Again he looked at Tsong. "Shame, old friend" he said tiredly. "Shame!"


	20. Desperate times

**Desperate times need desperate measures**

"Anthea, I think it would be best if you called it a day."

"But I..." Mycroft's assistant began a rebellious retort.

As usual, she at once restrained her temper. It was no use. For all the polite phrasing and the calm, cultivated and gentle voice - that had been an order. And once Tarantula had made up his mind, he rarely ever could be talked out of it, not even by 10 Downing Street.

And yet she could not stay silent completely, not after another look at her boss' swollen face. "You're sure you can deal with him, Sir?"

"With my brother?" Mycroft smiled lightly.

Anthea pointed at his nose, untidy clothes and hair. "With the man who did that!"

"It always takes time, talking sense into the little one."

"As you wish, Sir" she answered, still doubtful but nonetheless typing dutifully into her mobile.

Her obedience, the second car's immediate arrival, the stately limousine and impeccable chauffeur that drove both Holmes brothers through the night – it was all ample proof of Mycroft's regained seat of power.

Doubtlessly, in the old times, the pompous show off would have inspired a few cutting remarks from Sherlock. At the very least he'd boasted on the several clever theories he'd conjured about how Mycroft had made amends for the blunder of the 'stolen' weapon plans.

Tonight, he just stared out of the window without so much as acknowledging Mycroft's presence. He had not asked any questions, not made any comments, just accepted being shoved into the car and taken away like a condemned convict.

Or perhaps 'accepted' was the wrong term. He _ignored_ it. There was nothing helpless or anxious about it, though. This wasn't fear or anger. It was pure arrogance.

It was meant to provoke Mycroft beyond endurance and it surely worked a treat.

In all the years of their feud, it had almost always been Sherlock who'd went into battle brazenly, head over heels, with heated words, insults, sarcastic remarks or acid questions.

Tonight was different.

It was Mycroft who was unnerved by the offensive silence. "What's the matter Sherlock, are you trying to solve things by unjustified sulking once more?"

"Leave me alone!"

Mycroft cocked his head, hiding his gratitude for having been graced with an answer at all. "You've been alone for almost five years, dear brother. You're sure you want to continue this state of affairs?"

Sherlock just huffed and made it a point to lean closer to the window as far as he could.

"Would you prefer to have your hands freed" Mycroft asked.

"I'm used to it!"

"_Have it your way_" the elder Holmes thought; angry enough to silence his qualms of conscience. Both arms twisted behind his back, the wrists tightly chained – it _had_ to hurt. But Mycroft would be damned if he indulged this infantile sulking.

Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye. "It's for your own safety" he snapped. "But if you prefer it, you could call it an educational measure."

"A slap in the face and a smack on your behind might be more suitable to correct your childish behaviour."

Now Sherlock glared at his brother, fiercely.

Mycroft returned the stare evenly. "You know, brother dear, I've been to the zoo once and the snakes there had more warmth in their faces than you have right now."

"How would you know? You wouldn't recognize human warmth if it jumped into your face!"

"Would _you_?" Mycroft asked back, still apparently unruffled.

The younger shrugged as best he could and turned away once more. Quite correctly Mycroft translated that as the equivalent of an angry shout: "_Hopeless_!"

Discouraged, as he undoubtedly was, Mycroft nonetheless tried again. "One could have presumed that you might have been glad to see me" he said, taking the utmost care to sound no more than mildly interested.

"No, I'm not glad to see you. You're a menace. Don't you know that?" Sherlock retorted with a malicious joy that Mycroft did not understand at first.

Then it came to him. Kensington Gardens. His encounter with his 'resurrected' younger brother. "You're right of course. How stupid of me to assume differently. Forgive me" he repeated Sherlock's words from back then. Anything, if only it made little brother more approachable…

Unfortunately, it did not.

Apparently the younger Holmes felt he'd got the upper hand, as the malignant grin stayed in place. "I'd never thought you'd remember!"

The difference between Sherlock's aggressive irony and Mycroft's iron calm could not have been more significant.

"You did not give me a chance to explain, Sherlock. You never do. Back then, the thought of you, of what had happened to you, and John, did not leave me, day and night. Believe it or not, I was just tired. I thought I'd made you up, imagined your voice once again and I couldn't stand it. The second I realized it had really been you I ran after you, but I couldn't find you until I came to Anthea's car."

Mycroft could see that, if only by surprise effect, had hit a softer spot in Sherlock. Baby brother wasn't used to elder brother being emotional. However the younger one's fighting spirit, so very typical for the Holmes family, was not that easily disheartened. "You're lucky that your assistant is always around to arrest me and chain me down for you!"

"I thought…" Mycroft began, but he'd trouble going on. This new approach, opening up to Sherlock, was so damned unfamiliar. Tarantula had always been cautious about showing how much he cared. Sherlock wasn't easy to read at the very best of times. Letting him know how deeply he could hurt his elder brother with a single word or gesture was a grave risk.

Tarantula never took risks if he could avoid them. Today, however, he felt that he could not. He cleared his throat and started anew "I thought, when you came running down that stairs in Tsong's house, you looked not unsatisfied with seeing me. Chang told me you'd virtually tortured yourself over my death."

"I guess Chinese can get dementia as much as anyone else!"

Mycroft swallowed. Exactly as he'd thought it'd be. He couldn't believe himself. One infantile, stupid retort and his eyes stung.

_Five_ years. Five long years of being locked up, under torture, spent in fear, pain, hopelessness, solitude, humiliation – and no change whatsoever. Give him a finger and the impossible Tyrannosaurus Rex whelp will bite off both your arms!

Face it, Mycroft Holmes. You can rule the British Government, pull yourself out of the tightest spots by your own hair, you can fool the most vicious agents of this world, you can fight anyone and anything but you're no match for your own little brother!

Tarantula called himself to order. Now who was having childish thoughts?

Nevertheless, a sober evaluation of the facts led to the same conclusions – he couldn't do any good here. He was biased, compromised and attackable which by all rules of the profession meant that he could no longer work on the case.

Another agent had to be found, someone who could approach the case of Sherlock Holmes' reintegration into British Society – if it was a _**re**_-integration at all – from another, more effective and less emotionally involved angle.

The whole chain of thoughts had taken Mycroft just a few seconds, but it had been enough to make Sherlock even more distrustful. "Take off these things!" he demanded suddenly, rattling the handcuffs. "This has gone on long enough!" He sounded haughty, but also a bit anxious.

"Forget it, dear brother. As you said yourself, they're still direly needed!"

"You said I'm not to be prosecuted. That I'm a free man! Take them off!"

Instead Mycroft told the chauffeur that they'd make a little detour. He gave the driver a new address and the younger Holmes shouted at the top of his lungs. "NO, Mycroft. You can't do this!"

"Watch me!"

"Let me go! Now!"

"No way."

"Mycroft, I…"

"Forgive me, Sherlock. Believe it or not, I'm most truly sorry for what I am about to do!" With his last words, the elder brother lunged out and his fist hit Sherlock's chin with full force.

The younger went out like a light.

"Are you in need of assistance, Sir?" the driver asked worriedly.

Mycroft shook his hurting fist, but otherwise he looked extremely pleased with himself. "Yes, Willard, I _am_ in need of assistance. Luckily I know exactly where to get it. Hurry, now. You wouldn't want to be anywhere near a fuel rod if the cooling blacks out?"

"Surely not, Sir!"

"See? Neither would I. Unfortunately I'm closely related to _this_ unstable rod. I must find him the perfect holding basin before he comes to and goes nuts."

"At the address you gave me, Sir?"

"Yes, Willard." Mycroft audibly concluded the conversation, nodding with more conviction than he actually felt.

Taking his clue, the driver turned back to the front window, leaving his superior to his thoughts.

Mycroft's moment of glory had been extremely short-lived. In his sleep – _unconsciousness_, the elder brother forced himself to be realistic – Sherlock's mask slipped. He looked haggard, worn and very vulnerable.

In other words he looked like when Mycroft had found him, his veins pumped full of cocaine, lying in some London gutter like a dirty-wet, starved and battered rat.

Back then, Mycroft had felt fiercely protective.

Back then, his help had not been wanted but he'd forced it on his little brother nonetheless.

Back then, it had damaged their already precarious relationship further.

Sherlock wouldn't forgive his brother for picking him from the street against his will, for as long as he lived.

Sure, Tarantula could give a shit about that; he could once again use his old tricks. Lock his brother in somewhere, buy the best professional help and coerce him into accepting it, keep an eye on the younger one until, like it or not, he got better.

Alas, this time it wouldn't work.

The stubborn, self-reliant, proud-as-Satan but ailing little monster needed another kind of medicine. One that had helped him once before, without any doing of his elder brother.

"_Let's hope that the old chemistry still works_" Mycroft thought.

And for the rest of the short journey, he did just that.

Hope.


	21. Snow blind

**21. Snow blind**

"_Chapter 2_" the screen blinked agitatedly and a fanfare sounded in the off. Unmistakably the trumpets from 'Aida's' triumphal march.

"_Insipid_" John thought, disgusted. "_How very much like Moriarty, to boast like that_."

As it turned out, the criminal boasted about much more than just his knowledge of Mr Verdi's operas.

It took John Watson M. D. just one look at the white walls and interior of 'the room' to know that this had been it. Against this, Sherlock, by his very nature, would have been defenceless.

And just so, a second later Moriarty went at some lengths to explain that his captive's repertoire of counter measures, meagre from the start, had been exhausted rather quickly.

As a watchful captor, the criminal had also been aware that his prisoner blamed not his brutal tormentor, but himself for his 'quick' surrender.

From John's point of view, with a more professional insight into the psycho-physical consequences of the torture, his friend had persisted unbelievably long.

There is no retreating into your own mind when your opponent has all the modern technological toys at his disposal. Like white noise. Or adrenaline injections.

A hunger strike is of little point if your adversary doesn't care _how_ you are fed. How much it hurts or how it makes you feel. Just that the nourishment makes its way into your belly.

Right of the cuff Dr Watson would have known several ways to force feed a person other than by the gruesome methods of a 19th century prison ward. But then, Moriarty had not been interested in sparing his captive.

Although he'd been far from admitting that to his victim's face.

Every time Sherlock had been untied after the forced feeding, James reasoned with him, sighing or whining dramatically. "You know my men will come for you again. And again. And again. As often as it takes. You know you will eat in the end. Why not do it now? Please, Sherlock. I do not _want_ to hurt you. It _grieves_ me to see you suffer."

'They' came, as promised, and when he heard them, Sherlock closed his eyes. He did not struggle. But he did not give in either.

Watson couldn't – wouldn't – imagine how long he'd kept up a hunger strike had he been threatened with the procedure of a tube being forced down his throat. One day? Two?

His former flatmate had lasted two weeks.

Then he _had_ eaten.

Naturally it all came back up after a few minutes.

"Try again, Sherlock" James said softly, sympathetically. "Please. For me."

The 'object', as Moriarty used to call his prisoner in a corny attempt to sound scientific, sat on the white washed floor, as far away from the equally white metal toilet as he could, hugged his knees and stared at the wall. Visibly trying to shut out anything else. Which was, of course, impossible.

"If you do not try again, I'll have to force it down your throat again. We both do not want that. Do we?"

In the long run the food Sherlock somehow managed to gulp down, stayed down.

Moriarty was over the moon that he'd managed to 'secure' and stabilize' his 'object', as he - audibly relieved – continued his audio commentary.

And indeed, once he'd given up on starving himself, Sherlock ate, drank, washed or dressed when ordered, even curled up to sleep when, mercifully, the blinding white lights were switched off for a short while.

As an overjoyed Moriarty put it, his captive had finally become 'snow-blind'.

The kidnapper thought it therefore time to start the next stage of the 'training'.

"Wouldn't it be a nice change for you to get out for a day?" James asked eagerly via Intercom. "I know what we could do, it'll be so much fun."

At first, Sherlock's reaction was not encouraging.

But Moriarty was patient. He asked the same question many times, in irregular intervals, without getting anything but an insult out of his captive.

Yet, again, it was a question of time. Finally James' tenacity bore fruit. The day came at which Holmes stared into the camera, chin quivering a bit. Expectant, although he didn't want to be. Although he would have known it to be a mistake.

"Naturally you'd have to be a good boy" Moriarty continued. "_Will_ you be a good boy?"

Sherlock licked his lips and swallowed. "Yes" he then whispered. "I will be good."

It meant one step further down towards self-destruction.

John knew his friend well enough to guess that Sherlock had doubtlessly made up some excuses for himself - that he needed to save his strength or to keep his sanity intact in order to find a way of escape – yet he must have known it was self-betrayal.

Sherlock Holmes surrendered because he couldn't endure it any more.

Because he was beaten.

Moriarty sure made the most of it.

Childish games, humiliating conversations, provocations – he pulled every rabbit he could think of out of his hat. An endless stream of needlework, prick, prick, prick. Until Sherlock finally responded and fought back. Verbally, mostly. Rarely ever by resisting physical force.

Naturally, that had been Moriarty's aim. The slightest insolence, the tiniest sign of resistance and back the prisoner would go to the white hell, for days, weeks or longer, whatever it took before he would beg to be let out. Then the cruel teasing could start again.

The captor found the results of this roller-coaster most encouraging.

More and more Sherlock took care _not_ to cross Moriarty. The longer he tried, the more pleasing his captor became his second nature.

Some day, in the future, it would be his _only_ nature.

Moriarty timed it all wonderfully.

In the exactly right moment he made a game of presenting one of his brutal schemes to Sherlock. A scheme for a crime somebody else wanted to commit with Moriarty's help and counselling.

Would the Detective want to check it for flaws? To find out if he was smarter than James Moriarty?

_Why not, Sherlock? Keeps boredom at bay, doesn't it._

_Yes, well, it's a plan for blackmail. So what?_

_The victim is rich, so is the bitch who hired a Consulting Criminal. It's all about money, no one will be hurt. _

_Well, not badly, after all. _

_But if you're too tired, my dear, we could always bring you back to the room for some quiet meditation. Just say the word. Do you want to go back there, Sherlock? __**Now**_?

John wasn't really surprised that Holmes took another step down the ladder.

After that, Moriarty had trod lightly for a while. The next two schemes had been from the recent past. So no further damage _could_ be done. "_Just another game, my dear. From __intellectual to intellectual, so to say_."

Sherlock had not been able to resist temptation.

John realized that, at this stage, his friend had no longer been capable of seeing what was happening.

This was not about involving the Detective in criminal schemes.

That was a means, not the goal.

It was all about Moriarty step-by-step extending his hold over the other, until he could use and control him at will.

The screen virtually radiated joy and satisfaction whenever the criminal had breakfast with his human pet, played ping-pong or went for a swim with him.

Just from watching it, Watson could almost feel, in his own bones and muscles, Sherlock's gratitude for the workout.

Sherlock had always valued his physical fitness, astonishingly for someone who so recklessly played havoc with his health. Not only as a means for a detective's work, but for itself. Running, jumping, fighting, climbing until his heart hammered and his lungs hurt – just for the feeling of it. Like his brain work he cherished the racing pulse for the hilarious feeling of being so very much alive.

Not the kind of wildlife one should lock into a cage.

Now he had to be grateful when _James_ decided he could do anything at all.

Play chess.

Watch TV.

Walk through the garden.

Moriarty made Holmes read out loud to him. Listen to James' endless monologues. Praise some detail the kidnapper had purchased to decorate his already breath taking house.

Month after month Sherlock lived as a perfect toy for a man who had everything.

In all this time the prisoner neither tried to run nor to contact anyone.

Increasingly disturbed John saw that there were phones in the house. Computers. Deliveries were made. Jenkins went out to do some shopping, alone in his car.

For sure, Sherlock had known he was guarded, but he had not known about the 24 hour surveillance, Moriarty had made sure of that.

For a man like Sherlock Holmes there had been plenty of opportunities to at least _try_!

And yet he had never tried.

Like John, but with completely different feelings, James had valued that as a sign of his total victory over his captive. And he had stored some tale-telling scenes to prove it.

Sherlock staring out of the window, overlooking a busy street. Leaning in an open door whilst the postman drove away. His hands playing nervously with a futuristic mobile while he was absorbed in a book. Obviously not even thinking about using it.

John had no idea as to how it had happened but one thing was manifestly clear to him. Somehow, sometime Holmes had done more than just resigning to his fate. He'd accepted it. As something he deserved.

Moriarty had smelled that possibility from the start. Dug the weak spot out, like the jackal he was, probed for some rotten piece of meat, dragged it out into the light and devoured it.

All it had taken was one man who possessed ingenious empathy but not a single shred of conscience.

John felt cold inside. Cold and sick and unbelievably sad that Moriarty should have seen something in his friend that he, closer to Sherlock Holmes than even his brother, had obviously overlooked. For, if anyone had ever asked him if this was possible, he'd most decisively said 'no'. It would crush anyone else, yes, but not my brilliant, idiotic, stubborn asshole of a friend.

And, sure as hell, soon the criminal said so himself. He hadn't really believed he could do it. He'd thought it would take an eternity. And here he was, done, mission accomplished on all scores, and it had taken him but 18 months.

It was the end of chapter 2 and for one moment John thought that this had at least been the end of the horror.

However, chapter 3 of Moriarty's 'research report' just started automatically, no input was necessary.

The subject of this chapter was evident right from the start.

The scope of his victory had made Moriarty wanton, as he was about to find out.

"I'm to see a friend in town" the criminal said casually during lunch. "You remember this restaurant I told you about in Friedrichshain? Man's a bigwig in banking. Rich, influential. Well connected. Can be useful. Wouldn't want to cross him, would _we_."

"And who would be 'we' in that?" Holmes asked coldly and Watson, surprised, thought that, once the 'training phase' was over, politeness and a civil tone obviously were no longer part of Sherlock's duty roster.

On the screen, James rolled his eyes. "You and me, my dear, who else? I've told him the world about you."

"And what did you tell him? How many men it takes to keep me here?"

"Told him about my elder brother. Arthur Conan Harrungate. I must say, haven't I chosen the perfect name for you? C'me on, say yes."

Holmes laid down the cutlery. "Your _what_?"

"You're my brother. To me, you've always been. The bigwig wants to meet you, so you will accompany me tonight and that's that. Just thought I tell you in time; you have to change before we go. I've already told Jenkins what you're going to wear!"

"No!"

"What did you say, dearest?"

"You can't be serious."

"But I am. We'll have dinner at a very posh restaurant tonight, speak to a few very important people and you can finally see something of Berlin. One of my favourite cities. Will do you a world of good. I say, I'm happy for us both."

It was one of the rare occasions that rendered Sherlock speechless.

James caught his disbelieving stare and cocked a brow. "Didn't you see it coming? Surely you must have realized that our relationship must take the next step. I want to show you around, show people how perfect you are. With me."

Holmes flapped his napkin to the table and rose to leave.

Moriarty smiled happily. "Don't forget, I want you dressed and ready at a quarter to eight tonight, down in the hall."

"You're nuts, James" Sherlock said without turning. "But thanks for giving me ample time to find the hole in that one."

"It's not a puzzle, _brother dear_." Moriarty grinned briefly when he saw Sherlock wince. "Actually it's all quite clear and concise. If you try to run or do anything stupid – one wrong word, one wrong move and you're back to square one. To the _white_ square one, if you follow my drift."

Now Holmes _did_ turn, pale with wrath. "_You_ want to hinder me, once I'm out of here, you pathetic whimp. You and which army?"

"The German police, for one" Moriarty replied, quite relaxed. "Or a private, discreet ambulance I hired. Whoever gets to you first."

Sherlock inhaled to answer, but he got no chance, as James' feigned light heartedness just vaporised. "SHUT UP! I'm not yet finished!"

As always when the criminal was angry, his faint Irish accent became stronger. "Just to inform you, dear brother, the law's made me your custodian. I've got a valid certificate that you're placed under disability. You're as mad as a dog. Sometimes you do not even remember your name!"

"You cannot…."

"I could and I have. You have no ID, no money, no passport and believe me, you wouldn't make it anywhere _near_ the British Embassy. I know this city like the back of my hand!" He grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and ripped it open. "Must I remind you that you're dangerous, to yourself and others? All these tiny scars where the injection needles went in whilst you were under treatment are ample proof!"

Sherlock laughed out, loud and acidly. "And who's the Doctor Frankenstein who'd vouch for the truth of your ravings?"

Moriarty pulled some papers out of his jacket and threw them on the table, for his counterpart to see. "I guess you know these signatures? I showed these names to you in the papers a while ago, remember? They'd won a prize together, for their research on violent felony caused by schizophrenia. I'm afraid you've a long record of those."

Holmes read the papers and bit his lip.

James sighed resignedly. "You still do not see who I am, do you Sherlock? I'm _rich_. I'm stinking, outrageously shitty rich. What's more, I know everyone's skeletons in the cellar, no matter how deep they're buried. These signatures are genuine and I can have more of them, anytime. I could book the whole clinic, just to let you disappear, and they'd kiss my arse for it!"

"So you told your precious business bigwig that he might have a glimpse at your mad dog making pretty please?"

"Just so!"

Sherlock handed the papers back and shook his head. "No, James. Do what you like; I won't let you show me around on a leash."

In a split second, James' returned benevolence made way for the never-far-away monkey on his back. "You'll do as I SAY!" he screamed, and Watson recognized the maniac from the pool in that.

Without a moment's hesitation Moriarty lunged out and backhanded his prisoner. "Don't you _dare_ cross me on that. I've got plans for tonight; there'll be photographs to prove that you and I are friends. Brothers! You _will_ come!"

More than the slap, the tone of voice, the stubborn insistence of a spoilt child, did not bode well. The fingers that once again dug into Sherlock's wrist were feverishly red.

Holmes pulled his arm free. He, too, was shouting now. "What do you want to do, drag me there in handcuffs? _What,_ James? Admit it, you've lost this time. I won't do it!"

"You will, once I've reminded you of who's boss here!"

"You've overbid your cards. Lock me in or beat me, this _ends_ here! Here and now!"

Moriarty stamped his foot, whining loudly. "I _will_ have this night and I _will_ have the pictures. Prove to Mycroft and all the others. You're _mine_!"

"I'm not. And I never will be."

Holmes did not come far after he'd left the dining room before he was grabbed by Moriarty's men, but then, James' voice had been loud enough to echo from one end of the huge house to the other.

Sherlock knew better than to struggle.

However, when he was dragged back in, the Consulting Criminal was shaking, almost foaming with rage. Moran was visibly shocked by the sight, as was Jenkins who at once tried to calm his boss. "Sir, I'm sure we'll find a way, he'll see reason…..all will be as you want it….I'll see to it."

If looks could kill, Sherlock would have dropped dead when the 'butler' glared at him. "You'll rue the day you were born before I'm through with you! To upset him like this, over a trifle!"

Holmes lowered his head, utterly defeated. He hung almost limb in the men's grip. A deep, shuddering sob was all he had for an answer.

"Take him down" a disgusted Jenkins said. "He won't last long. He never has."

Moran nodded, apparently in haste to get out. His men had shoved their prisoner one step towards the door when Sherlock suddenly bolted up, then forward, kicking one of his captors' shin with full force.

Screaming, the man went down, dragging his companion partly with him.

For the moment Sherlock was free of them both, with Moran's path being blocked by the tangled mess of arms and legs and useless curses.

James shouted something nobody heeded as Holmes darted to the table, took one of the steak knives and raised it.

It all happened in the blink of an eye.

Only when the blood gushed out John realised that his friend had not attacked his enemies.

Sherlock had cut his own throat.

John gagged, hardly able to keep his lunch down. It was one thing to see a scar on Sherlock's body. It was totally different to see things actually happen to him.

After that, Watson's attention wavered as the rest of chapter 3 played out.

It was shocking, of course, to see the surveillance recordings of him and Sarah in their bedroom. Somehow even more threatening to see recordings of Lestrade playing with his kids or of Mrs Hudson doing her shopping.

Unsuspecting.

Innocent.

Completely helpless.

The final blackmail, the chips and the threat against Mycroft – again, there was nothing Sherlock could have done to prevent it.

The chapter ended with a – physically – recovered Detective accompanying a beaming Consulting Criminal to a concert in Berlin's Philharmonie. First piece was Georg Philipp Telemann's Concierto in D-Major for trumpets, one of Sherlock's favourites. One of only a handful of classical pieces that were not for violins but which he loved nonetheless.

How Moriarty had found out about that he kept to himself but he had undeniably chosen that piece for this night on purpose.

It had been after that concert, in one of Berlin's most expensive beach bars, that the first photographs had been taken, the ones which looked so much like a holiday party in the tropics.

Subsequently, captor and captive had travelled the world, staying here a few weeks, there a few days, just as Moriarty's changeable whims dictated it.

The photographs had been the only real constant in the game.

Watching his friend pose for them, John felt more hatred than he'd ever felt before. Not even in Helmand, not even for the man who'd shot him he'd felt what he felt now for the late criminal mastermind. He regretted that Moriarty - and Jenkins – were already dead and beyond all earthly pain.

How Sherlock must have felt, standing there, looking into the camera, smiling, pretending, knowing all the time who would see these pictures in the end, and to what effect.

As the screen went black Watson was nailed to his seat, heavy as lead.

He tried to encourage himself to search for the next part in the dossier. He told himself that he would want to see everything now. Especially the part about the days that had followed Sherlock's return, after he'd ruined his brother's career.

From what he'd seen so far, John shuddered when he imagined what punishment Sherlock would have faced after Moriarty had forced him to come back.

All that, just to achieve the release of a certain John Watson.

And this certain John Watson now thought of how he'd first seen the photos. Moriarty's arm around Sherlock's neck. Apparently enjoying their life. Their friendship.

John remembered his jealousy. The hurt feelings and the anger.

He'd told Lestrade he didn't believe these pictures. Had even punched the DI's face to make his point.

And yet it had been a lie.

Watson had no idea how long he'd just sat there, in the dark, before he finally pulled himself together and rummaged listlessly through the two folders, dreading the moment he'd find the next part of the 'research report'.

Demirkan's return was a most welcome interruption.

The Oberstleutnant nodded at the dossier spread out on the desk. "Leave it be, Doktor. Mycroft will come to pick it up tomorrow."

"You spoke to him?"

"He called me on my mobile, ten minutes ago."

John's unsteady gaze came to rest on the clock on the wall. "It's half past four in the morning" he said aghast. "How could it…"

"Fascinating material obviously. But perhaps the fascination should be enjoyed in smaller dosages. Shall I take you home, Doktor?"

Watson rubbed his face. "I could take a cab…"

"What for? I'd be honoured; I've not had a British Fusilier Captain in my car before today."

John blinked. Gosh, he was tired. "You think I should watch it all?" he said insecurely. "I owe it to him? To my friend?" His voice begged to hear 'no' for an answer. That this had been enough. For today and for the rest of his life.

Demirkan shrugged. "If I were him I'd say you can repay your debt another day. The material will not be lost to you. Shall we go?"

Once in the car, John shuddered and cuddled up in his jacket. His eyes closed and he drifted off to some semi-conscious state. It wasn't sleep; at least it didn't feel as comfortable as sleep did. He remembered the feeling from his first few weeks after he'd returned to London from Helmand and he did not like the memory.

The car stopped in front of 221B Baker Street. "Have a good night, Doktor. I'll see you again, very soon."

"Good night, Mr Demirkan" John said, a part of his mind sluggishly trying to remember where he'd heard this peculiar good-bye phrase before.

Behind the door was a white figure swaying to and fro nervously, chatting something unintelligible very excitedly.

"Not now, Mrs Hudson. Whatever it is, it'll have to wait. I cannot possibly…."

John waved his hand in a futile attempt to show what he meant but he gave it up half way. He shoved himself past the strangely agitated woman who by rights should be in her bed, as much he should be in his.

He climbed the stairs, his lids already half dropped. He made it to the living room, thinking only of the few steps more he had to take, to cross this room, open the door and fall into his bed.

Since he'd moved back in, he'd taken the downstairs bedroom. Sherlock's old room. Heaven knew why he'd done that, he himself had never known.

He undressed, put on an old bigshirt and – non-matching – pyjama pants, yawned violently and pulled back the bedcover.

His hands were cold and so he felt the unexpected warmth of another body at once.

With a yelp, John jumped backwards, only the one thought in his head, of how outrageous it was that he should not have his bed when he was so unendurably tired. For what seemed like an eternity he could not for the life of him think anything else.

Somehow, through the haze of exhaustion, shock and disbelief, Sherlock's voice found its way. "I'm sorry, John. This wasn't my idea."


	22. Remains of the day

**22. Remains of the day**

John pulled the soft, warm bedcover over his ears, yawned and cuddled up on his pillow.

He felt incredibly good.

Better than he'd felt since – oh, he couldn't remember.

Certainly not since Sarah had died.

Perhaps not since the day his life had gone into emergency state, almost five years ago, in the night at the pool.

Although, _why _he should feel so blissfully well was beyond him. After what he'd seen and felt last night, he'd be much more entitled to nightmares and a nervous stomach than to any kind of well-being.

As well as to some burning eyes and headaches. He'd gone to bed at five thirty in the morning and, judging from the light in the window, it was still early in the morning now.

Anyway, John had long ago learned to be grateful for small mercies.

He decided that, to let perfection multiply, he'd sleep in today. He needed it. Doctor's orders.

Not his own, mind you. He was still on the sick leave the army doctors had forced on him, out of the blue and on some very peculiar grounds.

Perhaps Mycroft had had some hand in that. Felt just like him, the whole affair.

But then, who gave a shit?

Watson yawned again, closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

Not for very long, though.

The door banged against the wall, his bedcover was pulled away and a wet washcloth was thrown into his face.

Spitting and coughing Watson jumped to his feet, which, on the soft mattress of an unfamiliar bed, was a mistake. He lost his footing –actually he never found it – toppled over and crashed to the floor head first.

"What the hell…..?"

"Don't you _dare_ complain, you heartless, cruel, unfeeling monster of a man!"

"Mrs Hudson, why do you….?"

"To let him lie there, all on his own; chained to the bed. I'd never thought you had it in you, never ever."

"Who? What? Where?"

"And you go to bed as if nothing had happened. 23 hours you slept, like a baby. _23_ hours!"

"I do not…."

"If it hadn't been for me, he'd still be where and how you left him. It's barbaric, doctor, that's what it is, barbaric!"

"Mrs Hudson…"

"But I have a second key for the flat, remember? You're not as clever as you think. I went in there. He told me how to pick the locks of these hideous handcuffs!"

If it was the association the word 'handcuffs' brought with it or if his brain had just woken up in stages, John did not know. What he _did_ know, though, was his memory suddenly working overtime to fill in some obvious gaps.

A second later, black holes enlightened and white spots erased, he paled. "You let him go? Heavens, nobody will find him again. Not until it's too late."

"You left him there. You said you'd take a little nap and afterwards you'd make him see reason. _23_ hours, doctor!"

John turned and grabbed her shoulders. "Do you have _any_ idea what you have done? He's not in a state to be left alone. He might go back to cocaine. Or kill himself on the spot. Why on earth didn't you just wake me?"

"He told me not to!"

"Christ, Mrs Hudson…"

"And he's not gone out, he's downstairs, having breakfast." She giggled. "Must be starving. I've never seen him eating like that. He's ravenous."

John let his arms sink. "He's still _here_?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. No need to treat him like a mad dog. Whatever made you do that, doctor?"

"But he said…."

"I heard what he said. He wasn't himself. You of all men should know that, dear."

"You _eavesdropped_?"

"'Course I did. Can't leave you boys alone, whatever would become of you if I did."

"That much" Watson replied helplessly "is certain."

"Now, yesterday you said that you two must talk, but that you were too tired. You couldn't think straight. He should wait until you'd had that little nap."

"He refused!"

"Always has to get his way, Sherlock has. When he said he'd leave as soon as possible, never to return, he did not mean it."

"Like hell he didn't. Told me he'd never molest me with his presence again or some bollocks like that."

"You boys and your childish quarrels. Anyway, I made him give me his word he'd wait for you if I freed him from these gruesome chains. What his brother thought, to treat him like a criminal - it's beyond me."

"I have a pretty good idea" John murmured. Aloud he said "You know he can be a danger to himself." Even to his own ears, he sounded insufferably hectoring.

"Well, he's not a danger to anyone right now. He's just sitting at the table, nibbling his bun, as agreeable and peaceful as a little lamb. Why don't you just join him and you talk it all over, as if you were two adults."

In vain John tried to conjure up a picture of the Sherlock Holmes he'd known in the past, nibbling anything like a little lamb. _Peacefully._

Impossible.

But then, stranger things had been known to happen. It was just John Watson's bad luck that he could not remember them. "You say he wants to see me?"

Mrs Hudson hesitated. Of that she obviously was not quite sure. As always she masked her doubts with an indulgent smile. The all-will-go-well sort of smile she kept special for life's occasion on which absolutely nothing did. "Come down, doctor. Talk to him. You two always made it up with each other in the end, didn't you. And he's been gone for too long."

For the first time ever John wondered what she might think – or perhaps even know – about Sherlock's ordeal. Or about how thoroughly this ordeal had ruined John Watson's life, too. What Mycroft, Lestrade, Sarah, Harry might have confessed to the always sympathetic ears over the years. And what she might have deduced from the bits and shreds of information, this woman whose kindness and warm heart made her appear so childish that most people overlooked her brightness and took her for a fool.

"You're right as always, Mrs Hudson. He has been gone for too long."

She nodded and retreated gracefully, in that way she sometimes had, when she'd made her point. Unobtrusively, as if she'd never been there.

John took the first step downstairs with a fierce determination which, unfortunately, diminished with every further step. The enormity of what he'd done came to him only now.

"_I'm sorry, John. This wasn't my idea."_

"_What are you doing in my bed?"_

"_It was Mycroft's stupid idea. He's left the handcuffs' key on the mantelpiece, just free my hands and you'll never set eyes on me again, I promise."_

"_Are you nuts?"_

"_John, I know you can't stand the sight of me. Just let me go __and I'll never molest you again_."

Watson remembered drawing a deep breath, raising his hands – and voice. "_Fine. Suit yourself. If that is all what you've to say to me after all this time – fine. But I'll not let you take advantage of me when I'm tired, wo__rn out and unable to think straight. If Mycroft chained you down he's undoubtedly had good reasons. So you're going to stay here until I'm myself again and then we'll talk and not before. Good night!"_

"_John, damn you, let me go!"_

"_No!"_

"_John Watson, you've not been able to think straight, tired or bright awake, one day of your life. Let me go!"_

"_Insults won't help you!"_

"_JOHN…._!"

The last thing Watson had heard was the door he'd slammed shut behind him with his own hands before he'd went upstairs to his unused former bedroom, grabbed a handful of blankets and pillows from one of Mrs Hudson's cupboards and went to sleep.

Without _one_ further thought of Sherlock's awkward situation.

For _**23**_ hours.

Christ almighty.

Ready for the most freezing reception in the history of mankind, John entered the living room.

Sherlock was by no means 'nibbling his bun peacefully'.

Instead he stood by the fire place, inaptly balancing some kind of bandage which was already hopelessly tangled, torn in two places – and dirty.

John's medical instincts went to red alert. "Give me that!" he said, reaching the other with two long strides and pulling the nightmarish parody of a wound's dressing from Sherlock's hands.

His former flatmate's wrists were bloodied, bruised and the cuts went deep.

"You tried to _pull_ free from solid steel manacles by force?" John asked, shocked by the sight.

"Some idiot forgot to open them when it was about time" Sherlock snapped back.

Watson found it wiser not to hear that. "Pass me the med-kit" he said instead, spotting the – naturally unopened – first aid kit on the mantelpiece. Heaven forbid that Sherlock Holmes used the proper stuff on himself unless he was forced to by sheer violence.

"What for?"

"To wrap these up properly!"

"Why should you care?"

John could think of a hundred reasons and each and every one was good, but he settled for the only one which had a chance. "I'm the doctor here, Mr Holmes. Not you."

Sherlock grimaced, discontentedly, but he allowed his wrists to be treated, only to pull them back abruptly the moment John was done.

Watson frowned. He liked being interrupted in his work as much as any other doctor, which meant, not at all. "Let me see your neck!"

"No!"

"Sherlock, these surgeons have cut into your neck, to reach your _spine_! The dressing is dirty, and even from here I can see that some sort of inflammation is building up. Let me see the wound, _now_, if you please!"

Again, Holmes showed all signs of violent discontent but he did not really refuse when John exposed the wound in his neck.

"That's almost completely healed" Watson said, relieved.

"Then why the fuss about nothing" Holmes gnarled. "Told you so."

"You fingered it. That's why it's reddened. Do that again and the wound will trouble you. I guarantee it."

"It itches."

"Yes it does. It's still healing." John had another look at the forming scar and shuddered. "Must have hurt at the time."

"I did not much care at the time."

"They had you under pain killers?"

"They kept telling me they'd sent me back to England!"

John gulped heavily. "You didn't want to come back?"

"Obviously not. Why should I?"

The doctor concentrated on cleaning and redressing the neck again. With a will, yet in offended silence. There was nothing obvious about that, not to him anyway.

Apparently, Sherlock did not like this silence very much. Apropos de rien he stated irritably "this flat is in a horrible state."

Watson looked around, glad for the change of subject. "Yeah, sure. It's tidy, it's well aired and it's spotless. Horrible indeed."

"All the more reason for me to leave now. Before I can spoil it." Sherlock grabbed his parka and headed for the door.

John was stunned by the unfamiliar sight. Somehow he'd expected to see the old black coat. But that was impossible.

As much as the whole situation.

"Sherlock, wait. Don't do this to me. Not like that."

Holmes stopped in midstride. He did not say anything, he just waited.

This waiting put more pressure on Watson than all the yelling and fighting in the world could have done. "Don't go like that" he finally pressed out. "I know I've let you down when you needed me most; I know I've disappointed you. For that I'm sorry, for all it is worth. I've tried my best, but I failed. What more can I say?"

The silence became even more offensive.

"You" Holmes finally said, dangerously quiet "think I believe that?" He did not turn; he just cocked his head back a bit.

Somehow this was what angered Watson more than anything else. He did not know why until he remembered where he'd seen this special still life of Sherlock's rigid back before. Waiting for what was to come. Tensed in anticipation. In distrust. And even fear.

It had been on the computer screen.

A scene in a villa in Grunewald.

"I'm not lying to you, Sherlock. I shouldn't have believed in these photos, I should have seen them for the stupid fakes they were but I did not. I'm sorry I'm such an idiot but that's how it is."

"You're handling me. I warn you, John. I've learned to see it in a master. I'm _done_ being manipulated!"

"I'm not trying anything here. I'm just saying I'm sorry."

"Oh, for sure. You've seen the recordings. Now you pity me. Poor old Sherlock who always thought so grandly of himself. Tell me, how long have you been talking to my brother once you'd left me on that bed? What strategy have you both come up with? Is it 'good cop bad cop' or have you for once come up with something more creative?"

"It has nothing to do with Mycroft. Yes, he did make me see what this swine put you through. This makes it even worse for me, don't you see?"

"Christ, John Watson, can't _you_ see when it's time to _stop_? I won't fall for it, just give it up and stop disgracing yourself!"

"During my medical training I took, heaven knows why, a special interest in such things. You've never thought much of my mental abilities but you've always respected my professional knowledge. As a doctor, as an expert on some ugly things that happened to other prisoners, I can tell you one thing: You stood no chance. Once he had you secured, Moriarty could reel off the whole shitty programme, without ruffle or excitement, and that's what it was, Sherlock – a programme. Designed to worm oneself into a man's personality; manipulating his body and emotions. Ask my former instructors, ask your brother's experts, ask the CIA, ask whomever you want on the subject, they'll all tell you the same thing: There is no escape, and there is no resistance, sooner or later the programme _will_ win." Watson paused, fighting for breath. "If it means anything to you – you lasted incredibly long."

"Why are you telling me this? Am I in need of comfort or solace from you? Am I in need of _anything_ you have to offer, which you're forcing on me as if you had a right to it? Your pity, your lies, your _insufferably_ bad acting! Do you think I _need_ that?"

"I _knew_, Sherlock. I knew all the time that these methods exist. And when it jumped into my face, when I had these photos in my hands, I did not see it." Again, John interrupted himself, hoping for some reaction that did not come. "Blast it, can't you imagine how ashamed I am?" he finally shouted, at the end of his tether.

All of a sudden, Sherlock darted round, came for the other and pushed him against the table. "You" he hissed viciously "_you_ are ashamed? _You_ are feeling _bad_? Oh, as soon as I can make the time, I'll sure burst into tears of sympathy. When my brother and you decided to keep me here, frowning over some stupid scheme to bring me to heel – oh, in my best interest, no doubt – did anyone think of how _I_ may feel? Of how ashamed I may be?"

"You have nothing to be ashamed of…"

"Don't I? _Don't_ I? I've killed your _wife_! You hate me, you can't stand the sight of me; you're only playing the Good Samaritan here for the superiority it gives you, you sanctimonious pillar-saint. You've been waiting for this chance since we've first met! How stupid do you think I am?"

Watson was stupefied by the rapid flow of accusations. "I beg your pardon?"

"Stop apologizing, it's unendurable!"

"I'm not apologizing; I've no idea what you're talking about!"

"You know damn well what I'm talking about! I've killed Sarah. Naturally you can never forgive me, so stop pretending otherwise."

"Moriarty killed Sarah!"

"No. It was me!"

"Bullshit. He did. I saw it. With my own eyes."

"I got it all wrong, I let him fool me and that's why she's dead. Mycroft said it almost killed you. I should be the one who's dead. So can you please STOP LYING TO ME!"

"That's not you talking. It's what Moriarty wanted you to think. _Programmed_ you to think. He had all the time, and the help, in the world to do it."

"I should have seen it coming. I should have known he'd never implant that chip in _my_ neck!"

"For God's sake, man, can't you finally accept that you are _human_. Like the rest of us. Your mind may be exceptional, yet your body is not. He'd brought you to the brink of death. You were tired, frightened and you had every reason to be. Please, Sherlock, if you cannot forgive yourself, how should you ever forgive _me_?"

"I'm never 'frightened'. Not enough to turn me into an imbecile." Holmes pulled himself upright, let go of the other and straightened his jacket. "As to the photos," he added stiffly "there's nothing to forgive. I've always been a very good actor. I wanted them to be convincing and they were. Period."

"_**I**_ have always been a good doctor. I take great pains in mastering any aspect of my profession I choose to enlarge upon. I once ventured deeply into _that_ particular subject. I knew every step, what Moriarty did was textbook! And still, he fooled me, first try. I wasn't his prisoner, he had not tortured me. But he fooled me, on my very own field of expertise, just like that."

Sherlock shrugged. "That proves no point. You've always been ordinary. Whereas I…."

"…are a mere mortal after all. Moriarty has made us both into fools. He, shockingly, bereaved you of your exaggerated intellectual narcissm. And I, cheap bully that I am, say 'amen' to that, as well as 'good riddance'! Can't we leave it at that and start afresh? We're all that's left!"

Sherlock's eyes locked with John's, flickering nervously. Searching for a false tone, a treacherous flinch, something that told him that this wasn't real after all. He searched for the hole in the story. Not as he once had done, to solve a case. But as Moriarty had taught him to, to avoid another painful trap.

Finally he turned away, grabbed his parka once again and made ready to leave. "It won't wash, John. We can't just do as if nothing had happened. It's over."

"So he was right. Moriarty, I mean. You're going to die alone, friendless. That's why he killed Sarah. To make me hate you. I don't, he could not make me, but he's won after all. You believe him more than you believe me."

"Stop it, John" Sherlock replied tiredly. "Please, I beg of you. Don't play my feelings, he's done that, more than enough. I'm sick of it."

"He's played mine, too. My wife, my feelings, my life – collateral damage of the game _you_ two played. If you're so much in love with being ashamed, how about being ashamed of that, eh? So you owe me one. A big one. Make it up to me by giving it a try. Stay. Stay here. Don't let the bastard win."

"It won't wash, John. Not by triggering my shame, not by triggering my ambition, just leave it be."

"I'm not talking about your feelings, you arrogant, selfish bastard. I'm talking about _me_. I want Moriarty to lose the game, I want him to sit in hell and know that, in the end, he could win a battle against me, many battles, but he's lost the war. If you let me down, he _has_ won and in my eyes, Sherlock Holmes_, that's_ what disgrace looks like!"

Sherlock stared at him. At the panting, fidgeting figure in front of him.

Watson imagined how he would appear in Holmes' eyes. Gruesomely pathetic, no doubt, fighting back tears, feeling that his case had been pleaded as best he could and yet so very poorly.

"You're serious!" Sherlock stated after a while, incredulous. "You're really serious."

"Of course I am. Can't you just….. I never gave myself a chance when I came back from Helmand, _you_ did. Let me return the favour. Allow me to give you a chance to heal."

"I'm sorry if I'm destroying any hopes here, I'm still male and you aren't gay, so maybe you shouldn't overdo this emotional thing."

"I do not have Alzheimer; I can remember we weren't a couple. But we were a hell of a team, Sherlock. And I thought we were friends."

Again, Holmes scrutinized the other. His face, though, wasn't as blank as he'd liked it to be. Deny it as he might, his emotions were closer to the surface than they'd once been, and it showed. He was unsure, of himself and of the other. He was also doing some very hard thinking, but of what and to what end, Watson could not read.

"It can't be, John. I'll never work as a detective again. It's like falling from a horse. You either decide to mount again, at once, or you'll never do. I won't mount that horse again. I'm through with it."

Watson cleared his throat. "Probably you'll say this is overemotional again. But I'm not talking about solving crimes together, I'm talking about _you_. Nothing what's happened was your fault. Whatever it takes to make you see that – count me in."

"Forgive me for being rude – you're a surgeon, not a therapist."

"Would you ever see a therapist?"

"Over my dead body!"

"See? As a surgeon I'm the next best thing. I could at least supervise your diet and see to it that this neck wound heals."

"Christ almighty."

"He's not competent for your case. He's with the meek and kind hearted. You're Mephistopheles, you always were."

"I've been told I have no sense of humour. What's about the 'Spirit that denies'? The joker with sly humour?"

"You _are_ denying. You've done nothing else since I found you. You're denying that we could do something good together. You deny yourself your home. But you're right, there's no humour in it, anywhere."

"What, then, is the kernel of the brute?"

"I've been to the place you're going to, Sherlock. Believe me, please. You're not going to like it there. Stay. Stay here."

"What if I don't?"

"I'll come after you. Like it or not. I'm a fighter. I don't give up."

Holmes huffed, exasperatedly. "Either Baker Street and you or Mycroft and one of his comfy little rubber rooms, eh?"

"As you said: It's all in your best interest."

"So you have been conspiring with my brother behind my back!"

"What for? I know you both. No conspiracy, just the science of deduction!" John closed his eyes briefly when the parka flew to the couch and stayed there. "_Thank god! Oh, thank God."_

Sherlock cocked an ironic brow when he passed the other by on his way to the 'fridge, poured himself a huge glass of milk and sat down comfortably in his old chair.

"You know" Watson said a bit hoarsely. "You may take some things for granted which aren't granted at all. Not one bit."

"Like you understanding anything of what has happened since the night at the pool?"

"Something like that, yes. I know some things, or think I know. As you wouldn't let me talk without going through the roof with impatience and despair…"

"True enough!"

"…why don't you tell me and I interrupt you in all the right places to tell you what I've already found out on my own?"

"I'll be parched try when I'm finished because you cannot interrupt me at all."

"Deal?"

"All right. But not now. You've slept for almost round the clock, not I. You let _me_ have a little nap, so that _I_ can think straight."

John nodded. It sounded fair enough. He would retire to his bedroom and finish his little 23 hours nap juuuuust in time for the great narrative. In the door he turned, frowning. "You'll still be here when I come back?"

"'Cross my heart and hope to die. At least before I'll face a life of eternally looking over my shoulder for your looming shadow come to haunt me!"

Reflexively, John's gaze wandered to the door's lock.

"Perhaps you'd like to chain me down again" Sherlock said sharply. "I'm sure Mrs Hudson could pass you the handcuffs. She never throws away anything, as far as I remember."

Watson blushed. His exit was a bit more hasty than he'd planned.

Sherlock waited until he heard John's steps in the bedroom upstairs before he rose.

For a moment he scrutinized his own face in the mirror. "Failure" he told himself in cold wrath. "You wretched, idiotic failure!"

The mobile on the coffee table buzzed.

Sherlock took the call.

"Brother dear" Mycroft said "you're too hard on yourself. You handled this quite nicely."

"You have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Any wish to change that?"

"No wish whatsoever, but I've got no choice. I need you, God help me."

"Tomorrow morning at the Diogenes' Club?"

"Tomorrow evening in your office. Eight o'clock sharp."

"As you wish."

"Believe me, nothing is as I would wish it to be."

"He's stronger than you give him credit for."

With an angry grimace, Sherlock terminated the line and threw the mobile on the nearest desk.

He turned to the shelf, rummaged through the books on it and found what he had been looking for.

He poured himself a stiff whiskey, gulped half of it down, sank the small, expensive spy camera and microphone in the rest, brought it to the toilet and flushed it down. "Good night, Mycroft!"

In his office, Mycroft leaned back, switched to camera two, overheard his younger brother's last remark and grinned.

"Good night, little one. Thanks for not going on the hunt alone!"


	23. Bits 'n pieces

**2****3. ****Bits 'n pieces**

John woke up with a start, sweating cold. How long had he been sleeping?

Jittery he grabbed his pants, sweater, underwear and raced downstairs, sure to find the rooms vacant and abandoned.

Instead he found Sherlock's clothes scattered all over the place and his friend in bed, fast asleep. Actually John had never seen him asleep like that, completely relaxed, at peace, a total loss to the outside world. If anything he looked five years younger, not older, but much more fragile than in the past.

Sheepishly John tip-toed out of the room, tripped over the carpet on his second step and demolished a significant part of the room's trappings in the useless attempt to _not_ fall down.

When the dust settled, he found himself face to face with his flatmate. Holmes was pinned down by the other man's weight as John had in a very involuntary, as well as very artistic, way managed to fall on the bed.

"Anything special on your mind, doctor?" Sherlock asked poisonously. His pointed look was fixed on Watson's hand on his right hip.

"Eh…. no, I….eh…hrmph… no, nothing in particular." Watson rose; his head hot and red. "Just thought I let you sleep in for a bit."

"And what a tremendously innovative way you've found to achieve that" was the sarcastic reply, accompanied by two long and slender legs leaping from the bed.

"Your back is stiff" the surgeon's professional eye couldn't help but register. "What's wrong Sherlock?"

Holmes, clearly offended, glared at his counterpart. "Neither Moriarty nor Chang ran an Olympic training camp. Wasn't that on the recordings you saw?

Belatedly John remembered what he'd thought watching the DVDs and, on instinct, he took an abashed refuge with the antics of a mother hen. "One might think they did. You've lost so much weight; I have to look twice to see you."

"Don't mollycoddle me. My family name is Holmes, not Hooper."

"Surely not. She's got more flesh to her bones _and_ more manners to her tone." Watson began to enjoy the verbal crossfire. Just like the old times. "Speaking about family, what of brother Mycroft?"

Sherlock, meanwhile, had made it to the bathroom. The shower was turned on and wet hot clouds evaporated from under the door. "What of him, indeed?" he shouted after a while through the wooden barrier. "Licking his abbot's boots I shouldn't wonder. Must have made it back into his superiors' good books somehow."

"After a special someone had kicked him out of them" John replied cuttingly.

The water from the tab stopped, feet pit-a-patted on a damp floor and Sherlock's dripping black mop of hair appeared in the entrance. "Again, you saw the recordings!" he repeated, but this time he sounded defensive rather than bellicose.

John's embarrassment returned, full swing, and it wasn't a very comfortable feeling. "Not all of it, no. I…. didn't want to go on after a certain point."

"And up to that point you _did_ want to go on?" Retreating back to the washing basin Holmes rubbed his hair vigorously with a towel, clearly happy to be on top of the conversation again. "Did you find the programme enjoyable?"

Watson gave up the pretence of being calm, patient and understanding. "Yes, very. It started with the day you got yourself flogged to pieces in France and it finished with the delightful bit of you cutting your own throat, followed by some very nice scenes in that tropical bar in Berlin and your little impromptu trip around the world."

From the bathroom came the sounds of a man brushing his teeth, then getting dressed. Nothing else.

"No omniscient narrator, mind you" Watson continued with increasing chagrin. "All from one perspective. _Moriarty's_ perspective. Epic stuff, though; Oscar-worthy. Can't wait to see the rest!"

Sherlock emerged from his hideaway. "Would you mind hearing another perspective?" John couldn't believe his eyes, Holmes was actually _grinning_, like the proverbial cat that ate the cream.

Watson's reply was accordingly freezing. "Telling me your story was, correct me from wrong, what we agreed upon earlier!"

Holmes' green eyes sparkled with somewhat of the old mischief. "So! You gave up in the middle, eh? A touch oversensitive, are we?"

"Oversensitive? I am _oversensitive_ because I couldn't bear to….?"

"Stop gasping John, I'm sure it's bad for your health!"

"Sherlock, sometimes you are … you are impossible!"

"_Sometimes_? With these clear insights, quick deductions and my logic, how am I possible at all?"

"Well then, spit it out! Give me your side of the story; you're dying to do it anyway."

Instead of an answer, Sherlock shook his head, clearly amused. "Not in here. Don't know about you, but I'm starving. Invite me to dinner?"

"You think the story better be swallowed with a good piece of meat?"

"Perhaps a bottle of grappa would be even better. Come on!" Sherlock was out before Watson could think of any way to stop him. Therefore he ran after him and caught up with him only on the stairs.

Just like the old times indeed!

And, right on clue, Mrs Hudson appeared in front of the main door. "Sherlock, you shouldn't go out. Your brother phoned; he'd like you to stay in until he sends his car."

"Tell Mycroft I need to stretch my legs, for reasons which should be obvious even to him. If he wants me to do that inside a vehicle, he should ask his superiors for a bigger and more comfortable limousine." Holmes grabbed her by the shoulders, smacked a kiss on her forehead and shoved her out of the way.

"But Sherlock…" she tried once more.

"Good night, Mrs Hudson!"

"But it's three o'clock in the afternoon" she shouted confusedly, just as the door slammed shut.

"Which day?" Watson shouted back, but he stood no chance as the door wouldn't answer.

Sherlock didn't slow down, let alone stop, until they'd settled down, together with two bottles of red wine and two huge plates with Angelo's personal version of 'Italian Tapas Espagnole' – whatever that may be – in a quiet back room of the restaurant. Truth be told, the room was quiet at normal times but not when Angelo greeted his long lost pet detective with all the warmth and enthusiasm of a Sicilian sun in august.

But even that found an end and they were finally alone.

John needed a moment to get used to the idea that this time there would be no Moriarty, no Lucky Cat, hopefully not even a Mycroft to disturb them.

Peculiar enough, Holmes' vigour seemed to leak out of him as soon as he was surrounded by quiet and peace. He was playing nervously with the fork, avoiding John's gaze.

Watson cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sherlock…. If this isn't the right moment…."

"Where do you want me to start?" Holmes asked abruptly. Suddenly he stared at his friend as if he'd be facing his worst enemy. "What do you want to know?"

"_Nothing_" John thought. "_What I know is more than enough already_." But he didn't say that. "Whatever you want to tell me" he replied instead.

"As I do not wish to tell anything to anyone, that's not much of a conversation" Sherlock snapped.

John lowered his head and raised both arms. "All right. Start at the beginning then."

"They took me to France on a boat. They left the boat with my shirt and some rags they'd used on me in an old harbour in London. They made the whole plane thing up. The man who got shot, apparently suicide, in France was Sebastian Moran's twin brother, the one who'd swindled him out of a fortune. Sebastian shot him, to get rid of him and to make the e-mail about the plane crash more believable. Any questions?"

John's head was swirling with questions but he knew it wouldn't be wise to admit that. "Mycroft found the boat" he said cautiously. "But he thought it was a deliberate fake track, to mislead him. There were so many other tracks, ambulances, helicopters, planes… Moriarty never tried to hide his tracks, instead he gave us so many, we got tangled in the web they were."

Sherlock huffed angrily.

"We should cut that short, perhaps" Watson suggested. "The details are not important…."

Holmes grazed him with a stare venomous enough to let an oak tree wither and die.

"Okay, okay, they are important, of course. That's not what I meant." The exasperation John felt was another déjà vu.

"I've told you before, a hundred times, you must learn to be more precise, John. What exactly _do_ you mean?"

"Good. Fine. Why is Mycroft still alive? Why did Lestrade lie to me about him? How come your brother is the high and mighty Whitehall mandarin again he was before his fall and how come you are here and not in China?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched. Was it amusement or embarrassment? John couldn't tell. Anyhow, Holmes seemed much more relaxed as he answered the question with a question: "Is that all?"

"Isn't it enough?"

"I'd say it deliberately avoids an awkward yet necessary issue, but for the moment, yes, I think it should do."

"Well, then, fire at will. I'm all ears."

"In that order?"

"If you wouldn't mind!"

Sherlock dug into his tapas; all of a sudden he showed a very healthy appetite. Munching away with a will, he began to talk. "Mycroft is alive because he found the chip in time and had it removed. It's what I had hoped for when I told him that you had been kidnapped by Ronald Midair because of your former involvement with the chips' development. Naturally, after your return, you would deny all knowledge of the project, and that should make my big brother think."

John raised his brows. "Believe it or not, I had figured out that much myself. But when we were on the airfield, with Chang, when Moriarty triggered the first chip, _you_ thought your brother was as good as dead."

Sherlock paled a bit and bent lower over his plate. "I thought it hadn't worked. That the shock about the theft of the weapon system plans had been too much for Mycroft. That the hint had gone unnoticed because it had been too subtle."

John sent a silent prayer to heaven, the first of what should become a whole series of silent prayers, that his next words would not sent his friend running away, never to come back. "Why did you not use the opportunity, when you were alone with him, to just _tell_ him what had really happened?"

Sherlock looked up, fully meeting John's gaze. "My brother Mycroft is a supercilious, arrogant, overly self-confident narcissist …..

"You don't say" John chimed in "is he the only one or is it a Holmes family treat?"

".. who loves to dominate my life at will " Sherlock went on as if there had not been an interruption. "But in his own selfish, inconsiderate and bullying way he loves me. I knew I had to return to Moriarty, I was only trying to lay my hand on the RCs to make sure that I'd confront dear James with some leverage of my own."

John spurred his own brain, still sluggish from too much sleep and some emotional overexertion, to some unexpected peak performance. "You mean, if you had told Mycroft you'd go back to Moriarty to save my arse, he'd never let you go? He'd left _me_ there to die, to buy the time to rid you both of the chips?"

"Yes."

Suddenly John knew the benefit of hiding one's face by picking in the food on one's plate. "You can hardly blame your elder brother for choosing your life over mine."

"I never said I blame him, I just said I could not risk it at the time."

Watson couldn't believe Sherlock's voice to be so even and calm as he said that. John's own tone was anything _but_ calm when he retorted "Instead you risked Mycroft's life. At least that's what you must have thought later. That he didn't get it? You ruined your brother's career to save his skin but you did not risk telling him the truth about the damn thing in his neck?"

Sherlock raised his shoulders uncomfortably. "When I first talked to Mycroft I thought I'd get the RCs from Moran. _Sebastian_ Moran, this time. When I stole the plans from Mycroft, Moran had been killed and Moriarty had told me that it was either that or you both would die."

"I see" John said softly. He was still busy coordinating what Sherlock had told him back on the airfield with what he was telling him now. Until another thought sidetracked him. "_Moran_ had helped you to escape from Moriarty's hold? Why on earth did he do that?"

"His partnership with the Consulting Criminal had not been all what he'd hoped it to be. James loathed him, there was no chance they'd become equal partners. I needed Moran's cooperation to overcome Moriarty's security system; he needed mine to get a new passport and some start up capital. He told me he would give me the RCs in exchange."

"But he died before he could?" John asked, slowly putting all pieces together.

Sherlock looked at the ceiling, then to the floor before he answered. "You might say he did" was all he replied.

John took his clue from that. "Moriarty had fooled you both?"

"Obviously." And quite obviously Sherlock disliked admitting that tremendously.

Again, John felt like walking on very thin ice. "Where have you been in between? I mean, between you running away and contacting Mycroft?"

"Here and there. I found some … old buddies of mine; they helped me as best they could."

"You? You have old buddies?" John remembered all the occasions on which Mycroft had ruled out the mere possibility.

"Yes." Idly Sherlock played with the wine glass. The liquid shimmered in the candle light, blood red.

"Where did you make their acquaintance?" John asked curiously.

"Years ago, when I was younger, I met them under the bridge, or in some gutter, what does it matter?"

"When you were investigating a case?"

"When I was investigating the chance for my next jolt!" Sherlock's gaze dared the other to challenge that and John knew he should not pursue that special issue any further. So, the question most sensitive to him could no longer be avoided. "What did Moriarty do to you after you came back?"

"He collected me from the roadside, showed me your act as 'sleeping beauty in the car-boot', made me change clothes and we drove off. British coast, private plane, and the Harrungate brothers were back in Berlin by nightfall. Travelling is comfortable if the money is right."

"No, I mean, …. What did he do…."

"To punish me? Nothing. Oh, well, he kept me under lock and key for a while, just long enough for the press to catch wind of Mycroft's troubles. James held an awful lot of papers, must have cost him a fortune. What wasn't in the press, he told me. He loved to hear his own voice."

"He timed it perfectly. He always did" Watson said, a bit rasping. "While you were reading those papers I got these photos. Lestrade came to Rügen, to give them to me. He told me about Mycroft's problems, and the theft of the weapon plans, I had not heard about it all."

"No need to tell me. I know."

John's spoon fell into his Angelo's Italian Tsatziki with a splash. "How could you..?

"As I said, Moriarty liked to keep me informed. About your refusal to accept the money Mycroft gave to you on my behalf, your wife troubles, your meeting with Lestrade – anything. The surveillance pictures of you seeing the photos for the first time he found "_r__evelatory_", I think.

"Good heavens" John muttered.

"You remember the chat message you got from him? That I had drowned in that plane crash in the channel? The night Moriarty destroyed my old website?"

Watson shuddered slightly. "I couldn't forget that night even if I wanted to."

"It was only two months after he'd let me out of 'the room'. Back then the small games could still give him the kick. I stood behind him when he chatted with you, didn't you know that?"

"No" John said. "It wasn't in the recordings." The very thought was enough to turn his stomach. "_Imagine how that must have been_."

"Naturally Lestrade did it for Mycroft, showing you the photos" Sherlock came back to the meeting on Rügen. "To scare you off the scent, keep you in Germany for a while, out of his hair and out of harm's way. The scandal hit my brother really hard. It was an unexpected windfall that brought him back to his – what did you call it? – Whitehall mandarin throne."

"Sherlock, sorry, I'm no longer sure I want to hear all this…."

"Oh, but you must. That's the most interesting part. Mycroft, with a rare stroke of genius, deduced that both American weapon firms were in league with the Consulting Criminal. At least that's what he's told Chang. I would assume that my brother found enough stinking, dirty laundry in dire need to be kept under the carpet to catapult him back into his former position for good. Manus manum lavat, as James would have put it."

Watson felt bile in his throat. "I hate it if you quote him."

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "Moriarty had a much clearer view on things than I ever had."

"I doubt that…"

"Then you're an idiot, John. Or a hopeless romantic, what's the same in a way."

"Stop it, Sherlock, please…"

"No. Why should I? You wanted to know, so know you shall. My elder brother, without a second thought, as soon as he had returned to his posh office and subservient staff, rummaged through his poison chests for something he could use to bail me out. He found a needle in a haystack, a message that had travelled half the world until it reached his desk, only to be forgotten by anyone until he dug it out. Want to hear more?"

"No.."

"Sorry, can't stop now. Some people in a country neighbouring China had decided they had some objections against the official Chinese policy on – let's call it religious minorities for now – and would want to do something about it. Something quite final. Luckily for the Holmes brothers, they had sworn bloody revenge on anyone who would cooperate with the People's Republic in future, which made them a potential danger to Queen and country and Commonwealth, God save all three. Therefore my brother got permission to investigate and, would you believe it, the wild goose chase proved him right. It was all true, blessed be all former KGB agents who like to be paid in British Pounds."

John shoved his plate back. There was no hope left he'd regain his appetite any time soon. "That was when he sent Lestrade to me with the news of Mycroft's death. So that I wouldn't look out for him. Or come to his office or something like that."

"Of course. Mycroft had returned to London too late to prevent my trip to China but he needed his hands free to hammer out a deal that would bring me back. Whitehall, MI 6 or Scotland Yard, its all one lot when things get tough. Cads' fighting, when ended, is soon mended."

Watson winced at that. This proverb quoting was a new habit in Sherlock and one he did not like. It sounded too much like somebody else he could have named. "When Mycroft had gathered sufficient information on the conspiracy…."

"He contacted the Foreign Office, they contacted Beijing – trade talks on the schedule anyway – Anthea sent SMS to Lucky Cat, and your new German friends I'm led to believe – and here I am, safe and sound. Some of these days the civilized world will be spared the news that my freedom was bought at the price of a bunch of probably harmless oddballs, their families and friends."

"You cannot know they are harmless…"

"They _were_ harmless. And even if they weren't, what harm could they have done to England? They're as good as _dead_, John, dead or facing life imprisonment, because Mycroft Holmes decided that my life was worth more than theirs."

John reached across the table, grabbed his so far untouched glass of wine and emptied it at one gulp. "You know what?" he then said "Your brother is right. And that's all I have to say about it."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Who's that speaking now? The soldier who went to Afghanistan or the pillar-saint?"

John's fist crashed down on the table almost hard enough to break it. "Stop the unendurable lamenting, Sherlock Holmes. If anyone is the hypocrite here, its you. Why did you never try to run? Or at least contact Mycroft? The one reason he gave up on you was not Moran's e-mail, not Moriarty's ruses but that he never had a life-sign from you."

When Holmes kept silent, John mustered all his courage to go on. If this went wrong it might well have been the last he ever saw of his best friend. Yet somehow he _had_ to know. Somehow this was terribly important. "Once they'd let you out of that white hellhole – why didn't you at least _try_, Sherlock? There were no chips yet; no pictures, no death threats against any of us, _one_ call and Mycroft could have had a small army out for you."

The feared tantrum did not come. Sherlock just shook his head. "I knew that James would have some precautions in place. It was too dangerous." He sounded like a patient teacher, explaining the obvious to a stupid child for the umpteenth time.

"For whom?" John insisted. "You didn't care if you lived or died, as long as you were free of him. You could not know he'd threaten us, why on earth did you stay with him?"

"He would come up with something if I'd tried…"

"With something you could not predict? Not prepare for?"

"Yes!"

"_Six_ months, Sherlock! Six whole months after he'd let you out of that darn cellar, before he came up with this photo idea for the very first time. And in all this time you should not have been able to find a way out? _You_?"

"I _couldn't_ risk it…"

"Why not? What was there to lose?"

"It _was_ too dangerous!"

"Because James was smarter than you? Better than you? Because he'd _beaten_ you?"

Holmes was white as chalk now, all facial muscles tensed with barely controlled wrath. His voice dangerously quiet. "How dare you.."

"Here's news for you, mastermind" John said loudly. "You got it all wrong. He wasn't a genius, just a lunatic pig with a Midas' fortune, an army of helping hands and no conscience. You beat him on any game, as long as he played in your arena, but he was too much of a coward to do that."

"Is this going anywhere?"

"Hopefully to you recovering from this virus he infected you with. You may kick or beat a man, you may even kill someone in hot blood but _this_ kind of torture game, my friend, is just not up your street. Can't you get it into that thick head of yours that that's an achievement, not a crime? You should be proud of yourself! Whatever he said, whatever he told you, you are _nothing_ like him!"

"In a way he would agree. He thought of himself as the original and of me as the fake. Like the Vermeer, remember?"

"I give a shit if he'd agree or not. He's _made_ you believe you're worthless, can't you see that? To you he's not dead; he's still with you, by your side, day and night. Christ, cut his throat and be done with it, I can't stand him anymore!"

"John…."

"No! Get rid of him. Now! I want to see it! I want to hear it. _You_ are _not_ a fake!"

"Yes I am!"

"Heavens, Sherlock…."

"_I_ foolishly believed that the second chip was in _my_ neck. I even told Mycroft that it had been used to kill Midair's elder brother, just to make sure 'Tarantula' would believe in my _voluntary_ partnership with James later on."

John saw the other shake slightly and the only thing he wanted was to end this unwholesome subject once and for all. "I don't understand Sherlock, and I do not care right now…"

"Heavens, not even _you_ can be stupid enough to _not_ see the point" Holmes shouted at the top of his voice. "Imagine Mycroft finds the chip in his own neck, he knows _two_ have been stolen and that I have betrayed him. So, how should he ever believe that I was James' willing accomplice, had he not thought the second chip was buried six feet deep? He would have come after me as soon as he could, letting James know that the chip thing no longer worked. It would have been Mycroft's _death sentence_, isn't that elementary even to your ordinary brain?"

"What does it matter now?" John tried again to end the conversation.

"In case you haven't noticed, doctor, your _wife_ is dead because of my mistakes! Or are you too weak to face the facts, _Captain_ Watson?"

This, for John, was the last straw. "Would you finally be kind enough to leave my wife to _me_? It's _my_ heart, _my_ grief and mine is the right to lay blame. I won't allow Moriarty to rule my life; I most certainly will not allow you to do it for him. **I****S.****THAT.****CLEAR**?"

This time, with the third crash, one of the empty plates found an untimely end at Watson's hand.

The effect was astonishing.

Sherlock, quite an intimidating sight in his rage mere seconds ago, just stared, completely baffled.

Angelo stuck his head in "You two all right?"

Watson rubbed his face briefly. "Yes, Angelo, thank you" he then said, with extreme kindness, never taking his eyes away from Sherlock.

"Aaah" Angelo grinned understandingly. "You two having a little domestic?"

"Exactly" John confirmed. "A little domestic. And you know what? My _friend_ here" Watson drew another deep breath when he saw Angelo's tactlessly tactful grin "my friend here will spring for a bottle of your best grappa to make amends, won't you Sherlock!"

Holmes nodded. Just once and very briskly. Apparently he did not trust his voice.

Angelo hurried out with an angelic smile of peace on his face that would have done Mother Theresa proud. He brought the grappa, on the house, with his best wishes for their final reunion, long overdue. Then he withdrew, as gracefully as he could.

"Now that we've had our coming out there will be no way back" Sherlock said drily. "He'll expect us to have the wedding reception in here."

John felt hysterics building up in his throat. How very much like his impossible friend to regain his composure by this absurd intermezzo. Somehow nothing of this could be happening in the real world. "It's fine with me, as long as your brother doesn't wear black for the occasion."

"He did for my memorial service. Or so James told me."

One short remark and John's misplaced amusement was gone with the wind. "Okay" he said. "Lets give the subject of my wife a rest, shall we? We both know Moriarty killed Sarah to cause a rift between you and me and I've already told you it didn't work, not then, not now, not ever. Understand?"

Sherlock shrugged again, visibly at a loss for words.

With a sigh, John opened the grappa, poured two glasses to the brim and shoved one towards Sherlock. "Get that down and give me the rest of the story in a nutshell, will you? Why did you try to kill yourself in that special moment? Moriarty had given you plenty of reason before."

Holmes treated the grappa with contempt but he emptied his second glass of wine. "I knew you'd ask" he then said. "That's why I did not want Mycroft to listen in."

"He's bugged our flat? _Again_?"

"_**Our**__ flat_". They both cherished the sound of that, John was sure of it. Not that Sherlock would ever comment on it.

Instead Holmes just smiled ruefully. "The bugs came with me, I'm afraid. I've found the one he wanted me to find but there will be others. There's no helping it. You're still sure you'd not want to kick me out?"

"Dead sure. Now, is there an answer to my question or will it take the rest of the bottle?"

Sherlock rose quickly, shoving his chair back with the back of his knees. For a second John tensed, ready to prevent the other from giving him a run for his money. Yet Holmes just started pacing the room. "It was this ….. clinic thing" he said.

"When Moriarty threatened to have you locked up in that psychiatric hospital?"

"Yes!"

"And that was more horrible than anything else he'd done to you?"

"My mother died in such a clinic" Sherlock replied flatly. "Mycroft, tactful as always, chose the very same hospital for my withdrawal. He –or rather his helpmates – tracked me down, arrested me and dragged me there. My return to civil society would do wonders for my brother's career. I was – as they put it – a liability to Mycroft's reputation that did not go well with what his superiors had in mind for him. He never asked my leave. He paid these doctors and they did his bidding. I thought I would die in that cage."

John felt revelation overcome him. "So that's why you assumed Mycroft would believe that you hated him enough to agree with James planting this chip in his neck? As a last resort?"

Sherlock grimaced. "You must admit, it's convincing. If ruining his career does not do the trick, we, my buddy James and I, would rid ourselves of the brotherly nuisance by murder. Mycroft just escaped my treachery by a slip of my tongue. Good story, isn't it?"

John shook his head. "Mycroft knows your tongue does not slip. As much as he knows you wouldn't willingly harm him, no matter what."

"You have no idea how angry I was, back then, when he'd locked me up in that damn hospital" Sherlock murmured. "What I said I would do the day I came free!"

"How old were you?"

"22. Almost to the day."

"15 years ago, and Mycroft is still alive and well. Not so very convincing anymore, is it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I had to come up with _something_ that might fool my big brother when I read about your abduction in the papers. And I had to do it _fast_."

"I see" Watson said. It was debasing, that Moriarty had used him like that against both Holmes brothers, and the knowledge burned like hell.

Holmes looked at his friend with an expression that bordered on sympathy. "Anyway, you wanted to know why I cut my throat. This _was_ why. It was Mycroft all over again. James wanted a brother, presentable to his colleagues and business partners and if I would not oblige he'd found some doctors who'd force me. All it took was his name scratched on a cheque." He shivered. "I had seen it all before and I decided then and there, in Berlin, that I would not play along twice."

"But Moriarty left you no choice!"

"No! Just like a real brother, don't you think?"

Outside, in the small, dark passage between the dining room and the back, Mycroft Holmes let his hand sink away from the door handle. He took his bag from the floor, ever so quietly, turned and made haste to get out.


	24. Fall from grace

**24 Fall from grace**

It was half past seven in the morning and John couldn't stand his own restlessness anymore. _Twelve _hours since Sherlock had left Baker Street for his elder brother's office. "_Something I must discuss with Mycroft, today. It can't wait. No, I do __**not**__ want you to come with me, don't be ridiculous_!" Off he went; after that no sign, no word, no nothing.

And Mycroft didn't answer the phone. Of course he didn't, unloading his brother in John's bed when convenient was one thing; taking John's feelings into consideration when little brother was a bit better was a completely different cup of tea.

John's mobile rang and he frowned at the damn thing.

With his left eye he checked the time – outrageous! With his right eye he checked who was calling him – even less acceptable.

Now, after all these hours and fruitless calls. It was _Sherlock's_ call – or, much preferable, his return – John was waiting for, sitting on hot coals. And now – Mycroft's number; doubtlessly sure that John would take the call, happy and grateful that the great Holmes had finally remembered his existence.

Well, Mycroft could wait to the end of all time before _that_ call was taken. See how John cared!

Actually, Watson endured it up to the fourth jingle before he took the call with an angry press of his thumb. "This better be good. Do you know how long I've been..."

Mycroft's cultivated, maddeningly calm and relaxed voice interrupted him. "He's fine, John." The tone of it - a bit sarcastic, as usual, infuriatingly supercilious, as usual – and yet, there was something different. Something Watson couldn't quite put his finger on but which set his teeth on edge. And sure enough, the blow came. "Perhaps I should have phoned you earlier but it occurred to me only now that you might want to know as soon as possible: Sherlock won't come back to Baker Street."

John sat very upright in his chair. "What that's supposed to mean? He hasn't taken any luggage, not even an overnight bag..."

"You're misunderstanding me, John. I own a house, somewhere in the north, under an alias of course. He's there. For good. It's better that way. For both of you. Now if you'll excuse me, I must..."

"DON'T YOU _DARE _END THIS CALL LIKE THAT" John yelled into his phone at the top of his voice. He experienced the truth of an old figure of speech in this moment, one he'd always thought ridiculously dramatic: He saw red. Tiny spots of blood purple danced in front of his eyes, his throat got tight and his breathing was laboured.

John Watson had been through a lot with the Holmes brothers, but this... _this_...!

All these hours he'd waited for a call, for any news of what had happened, knowing that Sherlock was in no state to roam the streets alone, that he had to be kept under surveillance for his own good, that he was traumatized, besides himself, deeply hurt and not to be trusted with his own safety..."What the hell have you done to your brother this time? Locked him up in this Bedlam again, like you did all these years ago when he was about to become an embarrassment for your career?"

"I forbid you to speak in this tone..."

"Shut UP, Mycroft. I've got enough of your damn arrogance. I will ask you one last time, before I call the police – _where_ is Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry to remind you, Dr Watson – there are moments, situations rather, in which I _am_ the British Police. This, most definitely, could be one of these moments. But as I see that you're beside yourself and even more beyond reason than usual – wait for my car. I'll cancel a few appointments, one with the palace, if that is possible, and we can talk about this face to face."

The phone gave a soft buzzing sound and John knew that the call had been terminated.

For a second he stared at the mobile. Then he lounged out and threw it against the nearest wall. It was by sheer coincidence that it hit the soft back of the sofa and fell down, between the cushions.

Only afterwards John remembered that this mobile had been Sarah's last gift to him and he raced to recover it, wiping sweat from his face when he found it undamaged. "Jumped up, flagrant asshole" he muttered to himself. It sounded more like a sob, which didn't do much to lift his spirits. If only he hadn't second guessed that something like this was afoot, if only he hadn't seen it coming... but would Sherlock listen to him? No, he wouldn't.

Suddenly an idea came to John. "Mrs Hudsoooon" he called loudly. _How_ loud and how imperiously he realized only when she rushed in, out of breath and pale. "Something's happened, dear?"

"When Sherlock left last night to visit his brother, after we'd returned from the restaurant, did he say anything to you? Did he carry any luggage?"

"No, nothing" she answered, in a hushed voice. She looked at Watson with big, moist eyes. "It was just that..."

"It was just what?"

"His brother called me, somewhat later. There'd be no need for me to make any arrangements about the flat. Rent's paid you know, for the next two years in advance, can you imagine, but for you. Mycroft said, Sherlock wouldn't come back..."

"And you didn't bother to tell me? You didn't even think of it? Mycroft Holmes steps down from Olympus, makes a random decision, and you do not BOTHER TO EVEN TELL ME?"

"He... he said it might be for the best. And he _is_ his brother after all... and apparently Sherlock is very sick again, like he was before, some years ago ...

"Sherlock is by no means ill, nor is he back on the needle, he's worn out, traumatized and, in one word, in need of his friends, not of his brother's archaic concepts of educational disciplining. What else did Mcroft tell you?"

"No.. nothing. Believe me, dear, I didn't agree with him at first but Mycroft was so sure of himself..."

"Yes, he would be, isn't he always. Mrs Hudson, if you weren't who you are, I could..."

The door-bell rang, impatiently, once, twice, then someone hammered against the door.

Watson knew without looking out of the window that a black limousine had stopped outside 221B. Humiliating enough, he caught himself looking at his worn out jeans, the pair he only wore indoors, and the likewise time-honoured jumper and trainers he was wearing. Fleetingly he imagined appearing in Mycroft's posh office or, even worse, the Diogenes Club in this attire. But then he gave himself a mental kick in the ass. Christ Almighty, who was he, a servant dreading an encounter with the Queen? _He_ had a bone to pick with Mycroft Holmes, not the other way round.

Without a second glance at the crestfallen woman almost in tears John stomped out of the house, by the chauffeur who held the car door and fell down on the back seat without so much as a 'good day'.

Naturally, it had to be the Diogenes Club. But Watson was beyond being embarrassed. He marched by the waiter without as much as one glance at him. It was, unexpectedly, satisfying to see the puffed-up idiot almost faint at the sight of a guy dressed like this entering the sacred place.

But then John saw the elder Holmes raise his brows at the waiter who'd followed the unwelcome, ragged guest inside. The waiter bowed his head and withdrew, like thrown off by a magic spell.

Suddenly the army doctor hated not only Mycroft but the whole, darn, presumptuous system he stood for, with a vicious hate and spite he'd rarely felt before. Why could a man like Mycroft make all others jump and always came out on top himself? It wasn't right.

"Any special reason we had to meet _here_?" Watson spat at Mycroft behind the elegantly prepared breakfast table. "Is this meant to discipline me? Or are you just trying to show off?"

"Nothing like that" Mycroft replied, still calm but without his familiar, half conciliatory, half superior smile. "It's just the only place where I can be sure you sit down and listen without starting an immediate search for my little brother. Sherlock would never come here."

"Not willingly, no!"

"Would you wish to search the premises? If you think I'm holding my own brother in the cellar chained to a wine cask, by all means, proceed!"

John's right hand itched. The way it always did when he wanted to hit someone. For a blissful moment he pondered smashing this clean shaven, impeccably groomed features beyond repair. If possible the small bruise, last token of Sherlock punching his brother's face during their reunion, enhanced the desire even further.

But then, this wouldn't bring Watson closer to Sherlock, would it.

With the thought came disillusionment. And with that, cold, sustainable contempt instead of hot and short-lived anger. "You're a pig" John said bitterly. "You use people like tools. Pick them up when it serves your purpose; kick them out when you're done. Throw your brother at my feet when you're tired of him, take him back when the mood suits you. You made Sherlock what he is, no friends, no partner, just you to all eternity."

"I've not come to listen to a self-piteous tirade..." Mycroft began, but for once the magic spell did not work. He wasn't as intimidating as he usually was. He lacked, for what reason ever, the authority.

"It has NOTHING to do with self-pity" John hissed. "I pity your brother. Men like you are drawn to him, like moths to the light. You feed on him, to compensate your own deficiencies. Sherlock was right; you and Moriarty _do_ have an awful lot in common!"

On John's entry one other table in the restaurant's breakfast room had been occupied but it emptied in an instant when a perfectly manicured hand grabbed a bottle by the neck and raised it.

John did not flinch. He just stood there and dared the other to proceed. "_Give me a reason, Mycroft Holmes, c'me on, __I'd love to see you try_."

The elder Holmes put down the bottle and wiped his fingers with the napkin, as if he'd soiled them. He wore a peculiar expression, something between pain, surprise and a considerable measure of simple relief.

The waiter approached the two men. "Gentlemen, this is outrageous..."

In the blink of an eye, Mycroft had the unfortunate man by the collar. He spoke quietly, almost gently, but the threat was not diminished by that. "If you want to keep your job, _any_ job, in this city, you shut up, get out and don't you dare to come back before I say it, now did I make myself clear?"

A second later, Holmes and Watson were alone.

"I never knew the Club was _that_ completely under your heel" John said coldly.

"I'm one of the founding members" Mycroft replied, with some of his usual composure. "But still my membership can be revoked. Which it undoubtedly will be, by tomorrow. As for today, I assumed that you and I have something to discuss. Or did you just come to throw your weight around until someone cut you down to size?"

"Where is Sherlock?" John simply asked. One last, _very_ last, try to discuss this reasonably, for the younger brother's sake. "What have you done to him? He's _sick_, Mycroft. He can't stand your bullying right now, can't you even begin to understand?"

As Holmes did not answer, John leaned towards him. "Mycroft, I implore you, Moriarty has almost destroyed him. You slam him now, you break him. I know you mean well, but you haven't heard what he told me yesterday…" John's voice trailed off. He had shot his last bolt.

Mycroft looked to the floor, thinking. When he raised his head once more he had clearly come to a decision. "I'm a man of my word, John. I've never broken it, but I'm going to do it now. Consider it a gift, for all what you've done for us." He softly cleared his throat whilst his eyes swept the ceiling before they came back to Watson. "It's not me who's making the rules here, John. It's Sherlock. I never wanted to tell you, in fact, my brother made me promise not to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"That it is him who doesn't want to see you. Never again. He would have told you yesterday, but, for the first time ever as far as I remember, he lacked the courage to hurt another person. He feels unbearably obliged to you, humiliatingly obliged was the phrase he used, and that's exactly why your …. partnership or whatever it was... must end. Here and now. I'm sorry."

John swallowed. He was winded, as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. "You're lying" he finally pressed out. "You're lying through your teeth."

"Again, I apologize. It's understandable you do not want to believe me. Indeed, my brother has a gift for bringing others into impossible situations. But then again, as you yourself said, he's not himself presently. He's been badly hurt, mentally and physically and I will do anything, to anyone, to protect him."

John laughed softly, derisively. "I know you locked your brother up in a nuthouse when he was on the needle. Doubtlessly it's not to your liking that Sherlock told me. But that's what he needs, desperately. Talking to someone, openly. Only yesterday, Sherlock was happy he could confide in me, it did him a world of good, even though you'd never admit it..."

"On the contrary, I know it's true. I was there, at Angelo's. I heard it all and if I had any say in the matter, Sherlock would be with you right now, in Baker Street, where he, in my opinion, belongs. Yet I must no longer rule my brother's life, as you will surely agree. If he feels that, without you, he can make a speedier, more wholesome recovery it's neither for you nor for me to intervene!"

"And Sherlock told you that, when he visited you last night, but he couldn't tell me, when we had all day and he was enjoying himself while he was with me. Very convincing, Mr Holmes!"

"John, I..."

"_No_! Stop it. I've heard enough of your lies. You're jealous, that's it, you're plain jealous. Now, I'll tell you what's going to happen, I want to see your brother. I will speak to him, privately, with you not being anywhere near and then, if he tells me to piss off, then, and only then, will I believe it. Understood?"

Mycroft's face, that had come near to pleading, hardened. "If you, as his friend, cannot see what this would do to him, you have a peculiar concept of friendship, as well as of your professional duties, _doctor_!" He took his bag and umbrella. "I, on the other hand, do know what's best for my brother. Therefore he'll stay where he is. Period!"

"I'll see him, today, or you're going to regret it."

When John blocked his path, the elder Holmes cocked an impatient brow. "Mrs Hudson has, I believe, told you that all financial scores are settled. You should take the money, it's rightfully yours. Your share in what Sherlock earned by the cases you solved together. My brother was adamant to the extreme on that. Farewell, Dr Watson. I'll give your regards to Sherlock!"

Again, Mycroft tried to walk out but John stayed where he was, trapping the other between wall, marble table and himself. "You're mistaken, Mr Holmes. This blackmail isn't about money. It's about me meeting your brother, within the hour, in a place of my choosing, or I'll tell the media - the right ones - about your deal with the Chinese. Fine headline, MI 6 helps Beijing to murder a bunch of harmless weirdos. And these trade talks that originally brought Chang's lot to London – they're about weapons, aren't they?"

"You do not mean that." Mycroft said, appalled. "You can't be serious."

John sneered openly. "You've made it back into your superiors' good books only recently, yes? Where would that headline leave you, I wonder? You know what? I guess some journalists can even remember your name, from your last scandal!"

"Captain John Hamish Watson once made an oath to protect this country. You wouldn't break it on a whim!"

"Watch me!"

"Sherlock trusted you!"

"Exactly. And he abhorred your deal with the Chinese, almost as much as the thought of going back to your tender care. I'm working for your brother's interests here."

Mycroft scrutinized the other's face. Watson stared back, unyielding.

It was Holmes who lowered his gaze first. He fumbled for his mobile. He was about to make a call when he looked at Watson again. "Would you mind? My brother will contact you within in the hour. Now get out!"

Watson turned on his heels, best military style, and marched out. He knew he should be hilarious. He'd defeated a man who was used to do battle and crush much stronger calibres than a discharged army surgeon. And on Mycroft's very own battlefield, too.

Instead John Watson felt miserable. Somewhere in the back of his head a vicious voice kept nagging and nagging. That this victory was only postponing the inevitable. That this had been Sherlock's idea in the first place, that his idolized best friend had belatedly regretted last night's frankness and was now too much of a coward to tell him to his face.

A peculiar feeling in his neck made Watson look up, to the club building's upper floor windows. One curtain twitched slightly.

But then, it was a windy day.


	25. Backlash

**25 Backlash**

Mycroft didn't use the elevator. He deliberately took his time walking up the stairs to the Diogenes Club's upper floor. But eventually, he reached his destination.

He found his younger brother, face still turned to the image of the abandoned breakfast room on the surveillance monitor, stiff back trembling.

However, one of the curtains was drawn back. The little one had watched his friend leave.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I've let you down. But believe it or not, it was the right thing to do."

"Get out of my sight!"

The elder brother made a few steps that brought him close to the table with the equipment. Close enough to feel Sherlock's body heat, hear him breathe. Quietly Mycroft put down Sherlock's old mobile, the one that had been with his stuff in Baker Street when Mycroft had cleared the flat. He put it where the younger could see it. "Please, dear boy. Make this call. See him and tell him the truth."

"What if I don't?" Sherlock's glittering eyes, his bared teeth, like a trapped animal.

"John Watson wouldn't spill the beans to the media. He is, other than many I could mention, a very loyal man." Mycroft left the room without looking back. Outside, on the corridor, Sherlock's voiced reached him "I'll never forgive you, Mycroft. Not this time!"

"I know" Mycroft said softly, far too softly for Sherlock to hear him. Once he'd cleared the building he took a stroll through the small park behind the Diogenes Club. He recapitulated last night's meeting. It deserved some special pondering. It might well have been his last private encounter with his brother.

Last night Mycroft had known the meeting would go awry when Sherlock was dead on time.

Eight o'clock, sharp, and the younger Holmes had walked into the office. Dark face, stern jaw, looking scornful.

For a moment Mycroft was sure that Sherlock, with these supernatural senses of his, had found out about the elder brother's eavesdropping at the Italian Restaurant.

The Holmes boys had struck a deal, without so many words but to mutual satisfaction. The younger brother had become lenient towards the elder's obsession with spying on him – what Mycroft called protection – but if and when he decided to temporarily elude the surveillance, he demanded of Mycroft to respect this decision.

Which meant he wouldn't take kindly to big brother violating the agreement.

As Mycroft was already on edge because he had trouble coping with what he'd heard at Angelo's, this wasn't what he would call a comfortable situation. But then, when had been the last time he and his brother had felt comfortable with each other? Oh yes, the days after he'd found Sherlock – or had it been the other way round? - in Kensington Gardens.

Mycroft cherished the memory, although he knew this to be idiotic. After all, the comfort and joy, bitter-sweet as it had been, must have been one-sided. Unlike his elder brother Sherlock had known from the start that the reunion was a fool's paradise.

Had Mycroft really sacrificed John's life, if he'd seen through the fireworks of ruses and false tracks Sherlock had put up back then?

It would have saved Sherlock but turned him into an unforgiving enemy. Doubtlessly he would have revolted and struggled until Mycroft had locked him up in a safe house for as long as it took. Would it have been worth it? Yes. It would have. That and much more. It would have been worth any price, any price at all.

By the way, how peculiar it had been to hear the little one say he knew his elder brother loved him.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock clapped his hands sharply. "Is that you or am I looking at your wooden image? Not that there's much difference between the two."

With an effort Tarantula remembered that this was his office, and that he was not supposed to be in the weaker position on his home turf. "Good evening, Sherlock" he said, meticulously composed. "You're uncommonly punctual."

"We've a lot to discuss and not much time. First of all, I want the recordings and the documents Chang gave to John. You will _not _keep them!"

"May I ask why?" Mycroft asked, although he had a pretty good idea.

"I don't trust you with them. You might use them in any procedures of your imbecile colleagues or something. What Moriarty did is my affair. Bad enough that you made John see it and doubtlessly you enjoyed it yourself…" Sherlock, without wanting it, ended the sentence on the tone of a question mark, not of a full stop.

It was ample proof for the elder brother of what this really was about. "I did _not _watch the DVDs_. _I never doubted you; I know you didn't pal around with the criminal. You can have the dossier any time you want. I only ask you not to destroy it." Mycroft smiled derisively. "Information is power, dear boy. When others use theirs against you, your own set of informaton might be your only defence."

"Agreed" Sherlock said grudgingly. He was baffled by his easy victory. "Thanks, Mycroft ..." but then he broke off. He sniffed the air. Once, twice. His gaze found his brother's bag on the floor by the desk, before it jumped to Mycroft's tie. Sherlock's eyes went wide. "You have been at Angelo's!" he stated, disbelievingly. "You spied on me. Although I made it explicitly clear I wanted to be alone with John!"

"Would you mind..." Mycroft began with utmost patience, but he couldn't go on.

"Of course I _mind_. This is outrageous. You smell of Angelo's favourite olive oil, there's red brick dust from the next house's building works on your bag and you have most definitely soiled your tie, presumably with the second drink you took – no, make that the third drink. Your hands must have shaken, and your hands never do, unless you're drunk. You came back here, changed your tie, and you'd never wear this shade of green with this jacket and shirt if you were in a clear state of mind!"

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, you're right. Intruding on your privacy was wrong, please accept my sincere apology. Would you think it an adequate punishment for my trespass that I needed _four_ grappas before I returned here?"

Again, Sherlock smelled a rat in Mycroft's unheard of indulgence. If it occurred to him that it might be due to what he'd said to John about his elder brother, it only infuriated him further. "Should that tell me something?" he snarled.

"My hands _stopped_ shaking after the fourth, not after the third drink" Mycroft replied.

Sherlock flinched. The implication of that was very clear. But naturally, he couldn't give in so easily. "You're lying" he replied, distrusting every word, even if it merely confirmed what he'd deduced. "You detest grappa!"

"Exactly my point, brother dear."

Sherlock looked away, shook his head. A bit sheepishly, and highly uncharacteristic, he tousled his own hair. "All right, we don't have time for this. Consider my leniency an over-compensation for your broken nose."

"It's just punched. You did not break it."

"Should I be glad to hear that?" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft inhaled deeply before he answered. It always calmed his nerves when dealing with his sibling. "Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate your sentiment. By the way, when you told John what I..."

"You're trespassing again, dear brother. I won't tolerate it twice. One more word and this conversation is _over_!"

One look at the little one's face and Mycroft knew _that_ to be true. "What can I do for you, Sherlock?"

A second later, the 'British Government' swayed on his feet. The sight of Sherlock Holmes, wrathful and shouting just a second ago, blushing with awkwardness was quite overwhelming.

"You must keep John out of my hair, Mycroft. Scare him off, tell him you've had me transported to Siberia, anything, just get him out of the way!"

Mycroft was dumbfounded. At first he did not trust his ears, then he cleared his throat. "Let me get that straight, brother dear. You invite your friend to Angelo's, you tell him all our embarrassing little family secrets..."

"Embarrassing for you!"

"...embarrassing for both of us, now you want _me_ to tell John Watson, after an afternoon of friendship, closeness and confidence, to piss off?"

"I can't Mycroft. I tried, more than once, but I can't. I do not find the right words."

"That never stopped you in the past. If you do not find the right words you take the wrong ones, as long as you make your point. You never consider the damage your choice of words may cause!"

"This is different. _John_ is different." Sherlock's body told the story of how hard he was trying to be patient and what little success he had.

"For sure" Mycroft heard himself replying, with the madness of a man about to be destroyed by the Gods "the man to whom you sent your last farewell when you thought Moriarty would kill you, the man you chose over me more than once, he _would_ be special."

Sherlock rose from the chair he'd taken for himself, pale with anger. "I should have known better than to come here. But I'd never thought you could sink so low. This is petty, Mycroft. Petty and base."

"What about a man who's too much of a coward to tell his only friend the truth? Isn't that petty, too?" Mycroft had the reward of seeing that touch his brother to the quick.

The younger Holmes stopped in mid-stride, pondered, turned back. "It's what you've always wanted, isn't it?" he said. All of a sudden he seemed helpless, fragile and in dire need of comfort. "All right then. I've never begged you for anything before, but I'm begging you now. Do this for me. It needs to be done and I'm unable. I wouldn't convince him, he'd see through my lies, I simply _can't do it_!"

"But you think he'd believe _me_? After all that's happened, after all the times we've worked together on your behalf, to help you or save you, John Watson would accept _me_ as the villain who took you away from him for good?"

"After what I've told him today, he thinks you're a heartless bastard anyway!"

Mycroft rested both fists on the desk. "Is it..." he began, but then he needed to clear his throat again. "Is it rewarding for you, to hurt me? Do you enjoy it?"

Sherlock's brows knitted together. For a split second, he lost his surety. But the moment of empathy passed. "Will you do it, Mycroft?"

"Yes" Mycroft heard himself say. "Yes, I will do it."

Sherlock Holmes' smile could, on rare occasions, be described as angelic. His whole face lit up, he seemed virtually radiant. It usually happened when he got what he wanted. "Thanks, big brother. I knew I could count on you. Now, you can phone me when it's over. See you!" He turned to leave.

"Not so fast, dear boy. First, you will witness my encounter with your flatmate. You might as well see what you're doing. Second, if you think you can go to Germany on your own, think again!"

"Who said anything about Germany? I'm not…."

"Sherlock, there may have been occasions when you could fool me, but not today. I've invited Carruthers and some of my staff as well as Demirkan from the German BND to join us tonight for a briefing. You will go to Germany by my command and under my supervision or you won't go at all. My last word!"

The younger brother's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the elder. Mycroft knew he was being sized up; his sincerity was questioned. Something was going on in the little one's sharp brain; it was visible in the eyes, but what it was …. heaven would know.

"I should have known this was a trap" Sherlock finally drawled. "You would not give something for nothing."

"Of course not, brother dear. What do you take me for? I spend my days with politicians."

Mycroft had the nasty feeling that he was missing something essential when Sherlock just surrendered. "All right, Mycroft, you win. Have it your way."

The elder brother's apprehension worsened when Sherlock was all politeness during the briefing with the other agents, agreeing to every suggestion made by them. Yet Sherlock's demeanour gave nothing away.

Sometime in the early morning hours of the next day, the others finally left and Mycroft knew he had run out on excuses for postponing his call to John Watson.

Now, in the Diogenes Club park, the elder brother again wondered what his sibling might be up to. It was still a more comfortable subject than the fact that he had most likely lost his brother's last shreds of trust and affection.

Right on cue, hasty steps sounded in Mycroft's back. Sherlock's steps. And sure enough, he blurted his latest idea out at once. "If John won't deliver on his threat to whistleblow your deal with Chang to the media anyway, why should I meet with him?"

Oh, little one. So eager to muddle through between two evils, happy to have found a way to indulge yourself. Like a child.

"You wanted me to convince him that he should forget you" Mycroft replied. "You can't know, you were with Moriarty at the time, but I tried that in the past and it didn't work. It didn't work now, either. Leave John Watson with nothing but a load of unanswered questions and he'll never stop stalking us."

Sherlock objected heatedly. "You promised to take the blame because that would make this easier for John, but no, your ego intervened, you selfish bastard!"

Mycroft paid him in his own coin. "For _John_? It would make things easier for _John_? It would make things easier for _you."_

Sherlock glared at his brother but Mycroft won the silent staring match. The little one lowered his gaze to the phone and pressed the key for Watson's number. "John?" he said curtly as soon as the call was taken. "You wanted to talk to me? I can't for the life of me imagine what we should talk about but...all right. I'll be there. Give me fifteen minutes. No, I promise, I won't tell Mycroft."

He terminated the call and looked at his elder brother. "His favourite Starbuck's, on Oxford Street. Call me a cab!"

Mycroft remembered the coffee shop with mixed feelings. There he'd been sitting, spitting the sickly sweet muck over his fellow humans, thinking of his late little brother, only to meet this brother shortly afterwards, only to lose him again to Moriarty a few weeks later, and with him, almost, his livelihood. A bad omen if there ever had been one. But naturally Watson couldn't know that. "Call the cab yourself" he told Sherlock. "I'm not your errand boy."

The younger Holmes snorted while he searched briefly for the short cut of his once favourite cab firm. He hadn't used this phone in quite a while, yet the thing felt uncomfortable rather than unfamiliar. Old-fashioned, after the futuristic things Moriarty had surrounded himself with.

Always the dernier cri of technology.

In a blink the thought transported Sherlock back to the villa in Grunewald. Moriarty sat behind his desk, grinning amusedly, showing off his latest acquisition. "_Look at this, Sherlock. Beautiful, isn't it? __Such style. Got it directly from London. Whom would you like to call? John, perhaps? He still thinks you're dead. He's sad, so very sad. Shouldn't I bring him here? I could, you know. Any time I want to. We could give him your old room in the cellar."_

Sherlock suppressed a shiver. In his mind he saw the smooth, gliding movements of a cat, felt the arms around his body, the hot breath on his cheek. "_You do not need the room any longer, do you, Sherlock? No need to bring __**you**__ back there. Question is, do we nee__d to put your friend in there or not? Hmh, after last night's bad behaviour, I wonder!"_

"_I was just tired, James._"

"_You're never tired. Not when _you _are having fun. But if I want to have some fun, you want to go to bed. It's unfair, Sherlock."_

"_I hadn't sl__ept in three days." _Not that James didn't know that. Keeping the prisoner in handcuffs and depriving him of sleep might be Jenkins' idea of a punishment for 'insolence', but he'd not dared to do it without his master's consent.

"_You're such a wussy sometimes, Sherlock. Here I was, lo__oking forward to talking with a friend after a hard day's work and all you want is sleep!" _James pouted; his fingers closed over Sherlock's knotted shoulder muscles. He knew how to do it. It hurt enough to make Holmes clench his jaws.

"_Besides"_ Sherlock added, ignoring this 'gentle' reminder of what James could do, "_filling a woman up with liquor and then calling in two of your men isn't __my idea of fun."_

"_You know I hate prudishness. It's dull. Dull, dull, DULL! Does John know you are a prude? Maybe__ he would like my kind of fun. Let's give it a try." _Moriarty walked back to his desk, all business now.

"_It's ridiculous, James, can't you quarrel with me without involving everybody else? It's unworthy of you, leave John out of this!_"

Moriarty stopped, bent over the docking station for his mobile, the surveillance and communication consoles that kept him in touch with his empire. Anyone in the house was only a mouse click or a mobile's jingle away. So was every single thread of Moriarty's complex fabric of power, almost around the globe._ "Say please, Sherlock!"_

"_Get lost!"_

"_Say please, where are your manners? I thought you'd learned your lesson._"

"_You're being childish again, James. It's boring_!"

Sherlock remembered his cheek burning. The humiliation it had been, having one's ears boxed like a child, unable to do anything against it. And most of all he remembered Moriarty turning back to his desk, laying his finger on the button that would call his men.

There were days when the Consulting Criminal wanted to meet resistance. There were others when refusing him meant playing with a wildfire.

Over time Holmes had got intimate, comprehensive knowledge about Moriarty's international spider web. The wildfire could spring up in any place of the world; consume anyone, at a moment's notice. "_Please, James. I'm sorry, please forgive me."_

For better or for worse, James' reactions had always been instantaneous. This time it had been an easy smile, a happy punch on the shoulder. "_All right. I forgive you. You're sure you do not want to have Johnny here?"_

"_Quite sure!"_

"_So be it. You win, Sherlock. C'me on, I want to play chess."_

James had won the match, of course. Sherlock had had no trouble losing it because he hadn't paid any attention at all. Moriarty hadn't minded. Holmes had rather done anything else but playing chess, that was what this was about.

The memories were strong, vivid, not to be rejected, but they did not make it through Sherlock's façade.

Under Mycroft's wary gaze, Sherlock called the cab, put on his jacket, pocketed the mobile, all with an expression of virtually flawless indifference. _Too_ perfect.

It was one of the rare occasions on which Mycroft could read his sibling's mind. "I know what you fear, Sherlock. But don't let him win. Don't let Moriarty win, he doesn't deserve to."

The younger hesitated. Mycroft could be very persuading at times. But the memories of how it had felt, being strangled by fear, again and again, persisted. No matter how often Sherlock had told himself that Moriarty wouldn't waste a valuable hostage on trivialities, he couldn't be sure.

Moriarty had eliminated surety.

Sherlock didn't want to feel like that again. And he would not. "You know whose game it is, Mycroft dear."

Tarantula watched his little brother driving away to ruin his life even further.

Briefly he considered to phone Watson and tell him everything. But, in the end, he had to admit he lacked the courage.


	26. Les Miserables

**26 Les Miserables**

Sherlock sat in the cab and rehearsed inwardly, for the umpteenth time, what he would say to John.

Rehearsing didn't help. To his inner ears everything he came up with was pitiably unconvincing. Idiotic rather.

To hell with Mycroft. God damned coward! Once in life, just _once_, one really needed big brother's help, and, what happened – big brother brought one into real hot water, single-handed and without so much as _one_ moment of consideration for his younger sibling's predicament.

Damn, damn, _damn_ Mycroft to hell!

With red hot passion Sherlock wished to God he'd been born a single child.

But, unfortunately, the fervent prayer did nothing to solve his present problems.

The cab stopped outside the Starbuck's. Now or never, with never not being a practicable option. No stalling possible. Fire and forget!

With a hard, determined face Sherlock walked inside without so much as looking at John at the table in the corner. Holmes got himself a vanilla latte with extra cream and sat down, opposite his flatmate. _Former_ flatmate, he reprimanded himself.

All the worries about how to open this talk had been in vain, as Watson came directly to the point. "Please tell me that your brother had a dozen men waiting for you when you came and that they're monitoring your every move and word just now!"

With all his heart Sherlock wanted to say 'yes'. John could actually see the word forming on his lips but then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, John. I should have told you before: It was my idea. The two of us _must_ split up. You bind me to the past and I must look forward to the future. I hope you understand."

Watson guffawed and the milk foam from his coffee soiled Sherlock's jacket. "Christ, can't you do better than that? From which dimwit women's weekly did you copy that rubbish? God, I don't believe it."

"If it is proof you need..." Sherlock said as he presented a ticket and a contract copy.

John scrolled through it and stared at him, flabbergasted. "The violin? You're going to live on your violin from now on? In Berlin, of all places? Haven't you wasted enough time on that darn city?"

"Listen, John. Mycroft and I talked it all through and he thought – _we_ thought – that it is for the best. Prof Musil, my old music tutor, happens to live in Berlin. He has a small orchestra, mostly strings, and he's willing to take me on, give it a try. I have been quite good once and he was disappointed when I wasn't interested in a professional career."

Watson forgot his coffee. "You can't mean that, Sherlock. And, look - this ticket and contract were printed last night - Mycroft had them ready for you, did he not? Chang released you not yet three days ago, in the middle of the night. You had no time to arrange this, unless you want me to believe you could provide for it from China. So this rubbish _can't _have been your idea!"

Sherlock cursed his own stupidity. He had once taught his flatmate to have a closer look at things and now he reaped what he had sown. "I don't deny Mycroft arranged it, but it is what I want. Besides..."

"Besides what?"

"I won't have to stand trial for working with Moriarty but... it would be less embarrassing, especially for my brother, if I spent some time abroad. And I want to distance myself from everything..."

Again, John chuckled angrily. "In Berlin. You want to distance yourself from everything in _Berlin_. Will you call on Moriarty's residence in Grunewald or is a bit early for that? You could pay a visit to Oberstleutnant Demirkan, you could watch the recordings of what you've been through. He's made an excellent copy."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the mentioning of the copy. 'Copy before shredding' – an iron rule of every Secret Service. It applied to anything but to the useful stuff, of course. _That_ went to the shredder uncopied – and, rather than not, unread. But nothing of this was his business right now. "Why on earth should I contact the BND?" he asked John patiently. "That's Mycroft's domain."

John's bitter sarcasm was not to be pacified. "Indeed, why should you? To give them Mycroft's collegial regards? Or perhaps the BND might wish to contact _you_? They're still very interested in Moriarty's schemes. Too many white spots in the files, sleuths don't like that."

Sherlock felt a rising panic. Since when had his flatmate become _that_ clear sighted? "I do not know and I do not care, John. All I'm interested in is Prof Musil and his orchestra. I'm sorry, but I can't … just go back to our old life as if nothing had happened."

"Okay. Fine." John rose, straightened his jacket with one resolute pull and took the ticket from Sherlock's hand. "I take this, I'll give it back to you as soon as I've got mine. 14.00 hours, tomorrow, leaves us both with ample time for packing. You should do some shopping, you can't go anywhere in these rags."

Sherlock jumped to his feet, pushed the chair back with the back of his knees and roared until all other guests stared at him in shock. "Heavens above, can't you see I'm _sick_ of you! Your vulgar, smug attitude, it's unbearable. What do you take me for, a cripple in need of your shoulder to lean on? Well here's news for you Dr Watson – if anyone's the mentally deprived here it's you!"

John had paled during the outburst, but he restrained himself as best he could. "Sherlock, please, you're overwrought…."

"The devil I am! I've tried to be polite, but you are deaf as well as dumb." Holmes wrestled the ticket from Watson's hand. "It's what Mycroft once warned me about, if I wasted my time with vulgar, ordinary people like you. You simply cannot see what's what, not when it jumps into your silly, _silly_ faces!"

When Sherlock stormed out, leaving a dumbfounded Watson stranded and frozen to the spot, the Detective was trembling. His stomach fluttered and he was nauseous.

For half an hour he turned and twisted through all kinds of sideways, narrow alleys and back yards possible to make sure he wasn't stalked by his friend.

Naturally he _was_ stalked. Or rather, his mobile was, albeit not by Watson. Anthea picked him up and took him to Mycroft's apartment.

By nightfall, after some last preparations and another staff briefing, Mycroft returned home, to find his usually presumptuous brother huddled on the couch, a picture of utter and inconsolable misery.

In marked contrast to this, the elder brother's mood had much improved. Partly it was due to the thrill of what lay ahead and partly because he had made up his mind that it didn't really matter if Sherlock liked him or not. As long as the little one needed his big brother, there would still be a bond.

If one dealt with Sherlock, one learnt to derive huge comfort from small mercies.

Mycroft poured himself a drink and sat down by Sherlock's side. Tentatively he touched the other's hot, sticky forehead and jerked back, glad that he had got away without a finger being bitten off. Sherlock's vengeful snarl definitely spoke of a pursuant appetite.

"The meeting didn't go very well" the elder brother stated drily.

The younger man groaned. "No!"

"You didn't tell John the truth."

"No!"

"Will he follow you anyway?"

"No!"

"What makes you so sure?"

"You do not know what I said to him!"

Mycroft smiled, his superior, supercilious smile of old, and the first heart felt one in quite a while. "I _do_ know, Sherlock. I heard every word."

Sherlock closed his eyes. Naturally. If John had known, why hadn't he? This was embarrassing! "If you already know, why ask me?"

"I like to hear your voice, dear boy!"

Sherlock huffed angrily, got up and started pacing.

"You know, brother dear" Mycroft said "you put up a fine show, quite your old insulting, hurting, recklessly selfish persona. And yet – I think John won't let you get away with taking him for an idiot!"

"Could _you_ forgive a tirade like that?" Sherlock sneered. "Being insulted like that?"

His elder brother settled in a chair, gently shook his glass of single malt and tapped his toes. "Today's performance fell short of what you said and did to me in the past. And here I am."

"You are my brother!" Sherlock said. Clearly, to him, that explained anything sufficiently.

"Yes" Mycroft drawled. "Unlucky me. However, just as a precaution: Tomorrow John's passport will be confiscated. But the computer registers it as invalid even now. Your friend won't go anywhere outside the UK."

"Thanks, Mycroft" mumbled Sherlock.

"As always, little brother, you're most welcome."

Sherlock shuffled his feet on the carpet. His face worked like it sometimes did when he couldn't make up his mind how to react. Openly and with honesty or aggressively, to safeguard his precious decorum. Usually, honesty lost. It surely did today. "Good night, Tarantula" he snapped, dived under the blanket on the sofa and didn't emerge until after Mycroft had finished his drink and gone to bed.

It the precise moment in which Tarantula finished brushing his teeth, John Watson boarded a train that would take him to the coast.

The doctor had planned his journey meticulously. Command-style, with all due military precision.

If Mycroft was the one behind this fiasco, John's passport and money would surely be his first target. Seductively easy, wasn't it, for a man in Tarantula's position - no pass, no purse, no travel.

Hence the unusual travel route.

There was a place, by the seaside, where French fishing trawlers sometimes came at dawn to sell their bounty. As a young man John had sometimes taken their offer, for a small sum, to go to France by sea. They had no appetite for trouble, therefore they insisted on seeing a valid passport – with their own eyes, they didn't much believe in buying expensive computers. Otherwise – no questions asked, neither on the British nor on the French side.

All fares paid for in cash, but a lot of the money in his bank account was safely stowed away under John's jacket. After a quick transfer to a newly opened Swiss bank account it had been a piece of cake to change it into several prepaid credit cards. Besides these, John carried hardly any luggage at all.

From France he'd catch a train to Germany, a journey without border control, bless the EU and the Schengen agreement. The day after tomorrow, in the evening, he would arrive in Berlin. It hadn't been too difficult to find Prof Musil in the Internet. His position, his number, his address.

John's spirit rose while the scenery rushed by him in front of the train window. He would find out what this was really about, no matter what Sherlock said. For anybody else this outburst at Starbuck's would have been a painful experience. To John it was an acting performance far below Sherlock's former standards.

This stank. It stank of a Holmes conspiracy he ought to have no part in.

Well, if they thought they could keep him away, they could think again!

The doctor feasted on cake and tea from the trolley and admired the sunset. He really was looking forward to this. Something of the old tension, the old thrill, was coming back to him.

It would be fun to investigate the investigator.

It might be dangerous.

Would he like to come?

Hell, yes!

John's mood would have been even better had he known _how_ thoroughly he'd humbugged the 'British Government'. Mycroft had been preoccupied with the upcoming operation or he would have found out earlier than only next morning that the bird had flown. Anthea did her best to recapture him, but the picture of Dr John Hamish Watson M. D. peeling potatoes in a trawler's galley surpassed her power of imagination.

The elder Homes knew nothing about fishing trawlers either, yet had a general idea in _which_ continental capital the good doctor would resurface. But, Mycroft would weather out the storm Sherlock would rouse if and when it happened. Until then Tarantula counted silently to ten, indulged himself to a hot chocolate outside his diet and deliberately forgot to inform his brother about John's absence without leave.

It was therefore quite a merry little one – or, at least a not _too_ grumpy younger brother – who boarded the 14:00 h plane to Berlin with one of Demirkan's men.

Peter Meier-Gordon – heaven help German creativity when it came to inventing an alias – born in Cologne, raised for the most part of his childhood in England, posed as a half German, half British student of music and would share a flat with Sherlock.

Mycroft loved his brother, which naturally meant he didn't trust him. Peter would also function as an intermediary between Sherlock and Carruthers' team, who would stay with Demirkan.

For obvious reasons, Mycroft himself would stay in London. No deer had ever been caught by scaring it off in the first place.

It was perfectly logical and besides, Tarantula had urgent work to do.

The little one was well taken care of and anything was ship-shape and water tight. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

In the driving mirror, on their way back from the airport, Anthea saw, with a disapproving frown, her boss biting his nails ferociously. "The sooner this is over the better it will be, Sir" she said and, without asking him, made an appointment with his manicurist.

Sherlock and Peter arrived at their flat near Kurfürstendamm as best buddies forever. In fact, Sherlock said so himself more than once, inspired by the funny, gaily coloured buddy bears that stood in several places all over Berlin. Not for the life of him the German could understand why everybody had warned him about the other's arrogance and bad manners. This guy was the most amiable, the most considerate Brit he'd ever met.

In celebration of their newly found friendship they decided to have dinner at the DAITOKAI, a Japanese restaurant Sherlock knew from occasions he didn't enlarge upon. Peter awkwardly mumbled something about what and what not his expense account allowed, but Holmes laughed it away. He'd send the bill to Mycroft for refunding, the old boy did not know on what to spend his money anyway.

It was only on the next day, when Meier-Gordon came to from a narcotic stupor for which Sherlock had to answer, inside a drying-out cell of a Berlin police station, that two things became manifestly clear to him: One, he'd screwed up his career in the BND before it had really begun. Second, he should never have trusted Sherlock Holmes.


	27. Continental Rhapsody

**27 Continental Rhapsody**

John shuddered in his damp jacket. Half an hour ago he had been sweating in it. Then he had been soaked in it and now he was freezing cold in it. Damn the weather, changing from hot, sultry summer to raging thunder storm to cold wind and rain back to hot and sultry more than once in 24 hours.

And the Germans dared making jokes about British weather!

John loathed the weather, he loathed the people, he loathed the whole, damn city and most of all he loathed his own naivete. How, after what he'd seen of Sherlock in the past, could he have ever believed, if only for a moment, that his flatmate would go to Berlin and Prof Musil just because he'd said it.

Truth be told, John was well aware he blamed a totally innocent city he'd actually taken a liking to for his own misfortune and loss of faith.

For six weeks, when not studying German in an online crash course, watching, from a good hiding place, the BND building in which Demirkan and Carruthers could sometimes be spotted or going to Grunewald for a glimpse at Moriarty's house (with the big advert 'to sale' in the garden), Watson had shadowed old professor Musil every step of his way.

Which wasn't very difficult. The musician not only looked like a shorter version of Albert Einstein, he had an invariable routine.

The musician went from his apartment to his work place, a small stage in one of the Humboldt University buildings, worked with his orchestra and walked back to his flat, had supper in his favourite diner around the corner, said 'yes' and 'how marvellous' and 'what a lovely thing to say' to anybody who spoke to him – in German of course, which hadn't made sense to John at first. But, after a while, Watson had finally realised that the kind phrases were the old man's polite way to _not_ speak with his fellow humans.

After dinner Musil watched TV news, read a bit and went to bed, invariably.

No step from the path of virtue, no adventures, no women, no mates, no nothing, and most of all no Sherlock Holmes.

Just an old, decrepit neighbour, hard of hearing, who lived next door to Musil's apartment and never left his flat. John had seen him only once, standing at his flat's window, scrutinizing the street. At the time John had thought that the old neighbour's gaze would penetrate him; however, _why_ the strange German should frown at John standing on the pavement was beyond Watson. He was sure he looked completely inconspicuous. This was a quarter in which many singles lived and many night owls had no wish to find their lonely beds earlier than they had to.

The cranky neighbour had his shopping brought to him by a young, blond amber eyed German, a nephew of the professor's, whose name was also Musil, Alfred Musil. He lodged with his uncle for the duration of the term. The waitress in the diners had told John that much, as well as her despise for a young man with a chicken breast, bandy legs and a nervous tick in his left eye, especially if this young man dressed like a lunatic parrot and studied as unprofitable an art as ancient Far Eastern literature.

Naturally, John had paid the 'small orchestra, mostly strings' a few visits. He'd seen the professor there, Alfred playing the violin masterly – so the talent ran in the family, as it often did – and Musil's other students, but no Sherlock.

Running out of options, not daring to investigate police records or to talk to the British embassy too openly for fear of bringing Mycroft on his track, Watson had one day approached the professor in the university's refectory.

John had deliberately leaked that he was from London, an acquaintance of the Holmes' family and the musician had been surprisingly forthcoming. Obviously his time with Sherlock as his pupil was a very vivid memory. Oh, yes, the boy had been gifted, very talented but, alas, after this childhood, with this family – surely Mr Brown, as a close friend of the brothers, would follow his drift.

Actually, John did not. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft talked about their childhood.

Meanwhile, the professor was quite caught up in the conversation. So, Sherlock had gone into policing? Interesting, interesting. Hadn't the elder brother been in public service, too? No, Musil had lost contact with the Holmes brothers almost twenty years ago. A pity for the boy, a crying shame – but then, the boy might have married and become a happy family father since then. If Mr Brown would excuse him now, he had to return to his orchestra. And out Musil had shuffled, eagerly awaited by Alfred fussing over him at the doorstep.

In Watson's opinion, the nephew had some merits the waitress shunned unjustly. Alfred accompanied his uncle to work frequently, and more often than not he walked him back, too. Sure, it meant no detour, as the Institute of Far Eastern Studies was in the same building as the stage, but even so – it was kind hearted of the young man.

The nights were Alfred's though. John had watched him frequently leave the house in the evenings, after his uncle had gone to bed, and he'd returned only in the small hours.

It wasn't so unbelievable that Alfred should have a lot of friends to spend the nights with, for he was a harmless, friendly soul. When he found Watson in front of Musil's house, he had always a polite nod and a friendly word for the foreigner, although his English was virtually non existent. He said 'Guten Morgen' and 'Wie geht's' or 'Hallo', but albeit he knew by now that John was British, he never went as far as to say 'good morning'.

Today, Alfred had gone out around noon time and not yet returned. The neighbour was nowhere to be seen. Prof Musil had walked through his usual evening routine alone and was, undoubtedly, preparing for his warm and cosy bed right now, to sleep the sleep of the just and pure, like a good Christian.

Another rain showered John, and this one did it.

John left his post and took a cab to Alexanderplatz. Here, in the middle of the hurly-burly typical for the place at every day- or night time, he found a café, ordered a Latte Macchiato – he'd become embarrassingly addicted to the stuff – and, on second thought, added a vodka double to his order.

A second vodka the size of which mirrored the landlord's generous and sympathetic heart for morbid strangers went where the first had gone before John touched his coffee and began to take stock of his situation.

_Mission accomplished?_ - Are you kidding me?

_Any way to __do it yet?_ - Perhaps on Mars.

_Any options? -_ Yes, go home, forget the Holmes brothers, open up a medical practice, become wealthy, a respectable member of society and stay well clear of any black-haired sociopath in future.

Subsequently John Watson, worn out, wet, cold, with aching feet and an aching heart, remembered each and every rebuke he'd got from Sherlock, every supercilious remark, every not very subtle hint at his limited mental capacity and more than that he remembered how his life had gone awry during the last five years.

Something inside him faltered, folded up its wings and decided to no longer fly.

He had done what he could, given what he had to give, lost what he had had to lose and it had earned him – exactly nothing.

Why try? Again and again? Why fucking try, if the man didn't even want him?

"_We can't go back to our old life, John_" Sherlock had said, just like that. And please, dear Sherlock, oh smartest of the smart, what life _should_ I go back to, in your opinion?

Sarah is dead and she won't come back.

Sarah, what have I done to you? I'm so sorry, and I cannot even tell you. And for what? If you'd ask me now, I wouldn't even know! Christ almighty, why on earth did I spoil it all?

You hear me, Sherlock Holmes? My wife is dead and it is your f... Oh, heaven help me, I don't know what I'm thinking any more.

John was violently startled when someone addressed him from behind. "Entschuldigen Sie – ist hier noch frei?"

He turned, dumbfounded, and saw a very handsome, young woman with chestnut-red hair point at the chair opposite him with a question mark in her face. Her green-blue eyes were large, her features gentle. She was of middle height, delicate built and her skin was like porcelain. Among the other girls around she looked like a fairy from another world, what with her sea-green dress, fine shoes – though soaked and muddy – complete with an elegant first quality handbag as well as non-ostentatiously expensive platinum and emerald jewellery.

Gawking at her uncomprehendingly, John realised only belatedly what she wanted. The coffee shop had filled up during the last hour and his table was one of only a handful with a free seat. "Oh please..." he began, when he remembered she'd spoken German before, and without the slightest trace of an accent. "Bitte" he said, blushing about his clumsiness "ich wurde mir.." he cleared his throat nervously "ich würde mich freuen."

"Pleasure to meet you too" she said with a radiant smile as she sat down. "You're English? I'm Irish!"

"Cockney, from head to toe I'm afraid" John said, fidgeting on his chair. In his mind he heard Sherlock's menacing giggle. "_Every pretty face makes you into a fool, John. It's too ridiculous_!"

"Vanessa O'Donahue" she said as they shook hands. "From Coleraine." She laughed. "Lately of a one room flat in Alt-Mariendorf in Berlin."

"How do you do" John murmured. He hardly knew what he was saying. Somehow this woman had the power to baffle him just by sitting close. He smelled her perfume, felt her warm skin during the handshake, surmised the forms of her body through the silk she wore and was a bit dazed.

"Much better if I knew your name, My Lord" she said, laughing again. A sparkling sound, clear as a bell.

"Oh... sorry, Watson, Dr John Hamish Watson, from London, England." John half rose from his chair and made a stiff little bow, before he noticed that he was behaving impossibly stupid.

Thankfully, she ignored it. "Honoured to make your acquaintance, Dr John Hamish Watson from London, England. And what is a respectable subject of Her Majesty's doing in this wet and lonely place at night? Looking for the love of your life?"

The question was, by German, British or Irish standards, quite outrageous but she said it with such charm, such innocence and a laughing, kindly mocking voice that nobody could have taken offence. "What kind of remedy would a medical man search in Berlin Alexanderplatz? A remedy for a broken heart perhaps?"

"Yes" John answered without thinking. "I've been everywhere, but I can't find him. He doesn't want me any more."

Her brows climbed upwards and the corners of her beautiful, generous mouth dropped the tiniest bit. "Him?" she asked pointedly. "And who might _he_ be?"

John blushed again and this time it rolled over his neck and face like a hot wave. When would this finally stop? He wasn't averse to homosexuals, not a bit, but as he himself happened to be _not_ gay, the constant mix up was irritating, to say the least. Especially with a woman such as her. Heaven above, she was _attractive_! When had he last beheld a woman like this? Not since Sarah...

John pulled himself together. "He's a friend... my best friend..."

Her mouth now almost pouted and she withdrew a bit from him.

"Actually he's my brother" John said, shocked by his own lie but driven by an unknown force. "Half brother" he stammered on. "Enfant terrible of the family. I worry about him, constantly. Him and his drinking. He thinks I'm his arch enemy but I came to Berlin to find him. He got himself lost here, you see, and I can't find him."

Her sweet, lovely smile restored, she looked warmly into his confused face. "And now you're lost here too?"

John felt her slender hand on his, her fingers softly stroking his palm and he found it completely natural that she should do so. She was like that, she was compassionate and he needed compassion more than anything else. "Any idea of what I should do?" he asked with a bashful grin.

"Yes" she replied softly. "We're just two lost souls drifting through the night and we should make the most of it. Tomorrow, in sunlight, we will be wiser!"

Leaving the money on the table, they left together. In the cab to her flat, on the stairs, when she made tea for them both and while they talked and talked almost through the rest of the night – not for one single moment it occurred to John that this chance meeting, this instant, deep understanding might be anything else but utterly normal.

Birds were chirping and early risers were stirring in the street when they finally made it into her bed, where the friendship of souls turned into something different, more complete, more passionate, than before.

Afterwards, John dozed off in her arms.

He fell into a deep, black, warm and comforting hole, the kind he hadn't experienced in a very, very long time.

And only now, when he felt safe and snug and cared for, he really knew what he had been missing.


	28. When shall we three meet again?

**28 When shall we three meet again**

"I'm an actress" Vanessa moaned over Sunday breakfast in a Turkish brunch restaurant in Tempelhof she'd introduced John to. "I must rehearse _sometimes_! I can't do it all in the theatre, the brunt of the text work, in the early stages, I have to do at home. And this old Lady – I'm sure she's a dear, but to me...always complaining about the noise I make - oh, John, what shall I do?"

Watson had just finished his second portion of Kaymak with honey and raspberries when she looked at him pleadingly, her cup with strong black tea with two pieces of sugar in both hands, like a good luck charm against the old witch in the flat beneath hers.

"What objections could a sane person raise against you reading Shakespeare to yourself?" he asked a rhetorical question. "I mean – it's Macbeth, and it's not as if you were _shouting_ it!"

"Meh" Vanessa said awkwardly, looking down. "I _do_ declaim sometimes, I admit that, but – I can't help it, can I?"

"You know what?" Johns said, with the joie de vivre a well and deliciously filled stomach, lovable company and a bright sunny morning always gave him. "We've been staying at your place for the last two months. I've got a flat in Mitte, big enough for you and your stuff. Actually, it's far too big for me. Pack a bag; move in with me for the time being. You can declaim there as much as you want. The flat is sound proof. The landlord said it again and again when I first saw it. He was very proud of his achievement. 'Schalldicht', 'schalldicht' he said"

John's imitation of his self-important landlord with the funny, for a Brit almost unmanageable word 'schalldicht' was so very comical that he and Vanessa burst into a fit of laughter that got them a few more than just irritated looks from the other customers.

John paid the bill and they spontaneously decided to walk to the Victoria Park in nearby Kreuzberg.

"I can't just move in with you" Vanessa said. "I would feel like a drone. I'm quite self-reliant, you know, and I would want to keep it that way."

John shrugged casually. "In a way I've moved in with you since we first met. I'm the drone here."

"You've spent so much money on me already..."

"You're an actress, right? You've been resting, now you've been casted as Lady Macbeth. You told me the salary is terrific?"

She nodded. "It is!"

"See" John said "if it means so much to you, you can repay me after you've got your fee. End of story." He laid his arm around her slender shoulders. Gosh, that felt good. She even was the perfect five centimetres shorter than he. "I know you've been keeping a record of what I spent on you. Not that you easily allowed it, ever."

"It's part of who I am, John. You shouldn't mock it" she said angrily.

"All right, all right" he raised both hands over his head "You come to me for two months, afterwards, as the case maybe, we share the rent. Deal?"

"Deal" she said, audibly relieved and so very seriously that it delighted him until his heart throbbed. Vanessa was so sweet, gentle, like a glass figure. She had nothing of Sarah's sharp intellect, or her strength. The hard elbows and resolve of a woman who had fought her way through the ranks of medical profession were alien to her.

Where Sarah had been resolute, even commanding at times, Vanessa was all feeling, all instinct. Empathy was her forte, not understanding. The female surgeon and the actress – galaxies apart.

"_Sherlock wouldn't like" her_ John suddenly thought, apropos de rien. "_He wouldn't trust Vanessa, not as far as he could __spit_."

Watson called himself to order. Sometimes his mind _did _have a tendency to stray to erroneous grounds. Sherlock had been right in that.

Vanessa took his hand. "I know that look" she said. "Did he really never call? never give you a life sign, in all this time?"

"No" John answered hoarsely. If only it didn't hurt so much. At first it had been easier. If Sherlock want to contact him, fine, let him. And there had been Vanessa and with her something John had thought could never again be part of his life. But, when days passed and weeks came and went, things changed.

What if...

What if Sherlock hadn't contacted his friend because he _couldn't_?

What if he had found someone who'd sold him cocaine?

What if he lay under some Spree bridge, ready to die?

"You know what" Vanessa said spontaneously. "Let's give it one last try, together, eh? My house warming gift, for my new refuge. I've seen an advert, Prof Musil's orchestra is due to give a concert, Mozart and Haydn, two days from now. I could get tickets. Let me have a look at these people. As an actress, I see them with different eyes. Oh please, let me try."

She looked eager, bright, willing to please, he couldn't refuse her.

And so, the next day, she came to live with John, with two large bags and her cat and nothing more. A stay on trial. But a stay, after all.

They spent hours in bed, experimenting, exploring each other, as if their relationship was brand new, uncharted. "You're beautiful" she murmured. "A soldier's body." John had been called many things by many people in his life, but beautiful? That was a first!

Vanessa's fingers described circles on his skin. "One can't see it when you're dressed. Only I can see it! It's my secret. _Our_ secret." He shivered when she gently touched the scars he'd brought home from Helmand. "Dr John Hamish Watson from London, England, I think I could fall in love with you."

That night, when she was softly breathing by his side, John allowed himself to admit that he was very, very happy.

She looked gorgeous in her evening dress and her perfect make up at the side of a changed man, when they rushed into the concert hall for Musil's performance. For the first time ever, John was in an evening suit, complete with dress shoes and all the latest trimmings, handkerchief- or whatever the flimsy good-for-nothing thing's name in his breast pocket was – fancy tie and everything.

At dinner she had berated John playfully when he chose the wrong sort of Champaign. The waiters scraped and bowed to her reflexively. She chose the wine, for a ridiculous sum, but even John knew, after the first sip, that this was not the sort of bottle he used to buy in a London supermarket.

For the first time ever Watson saw Vanessa as a great Lady of the world, used to all the riches it had to offer. But then, she was an actress. And a very good one, by all accounts.

Her Lady Macbeth would be a tremendous success. Anyone said so at the theatre. John remembered how they all, from the director to the dresser, had told him so. "Vanessa" so they'd said "could play anything, from the country innocent to the black widow."

Watson doubted the latter very much, as Vanessa was only 32 and had the fragile looks of a much younger woman. Yet – who was he to argue with the theatre people?

He enjoyed dinner tremendously, hilariously proud that this radiant beauty should be there with him instead of Daniel Craig or Brad Pitt.

They reached the concert hall just in time, stepped on a few feet in their haste to take their seats and almost suffocated in their mutual attempt to _not_ giggle all the time.

The concert began, Vanessa held his hand, but John forgot all and everything around him after a few minutes. The orchestra was …. marvellous. Style and interpretation as standard and conservative as the choice of pieces – Boccherini, Mozart's Kleine Nachtmusik, Vivaldi, some pieces by Haydn. Violin dominated pieces alternated with viola, flute or a violoncello. A 'Best of German Kammermusik', nothing unexpected, nothing spectacular. But the musicians fell hardly short of being breath taking.

John was surprised to see Alfred as the main violin soloist. How this young man should manage to reconcile his studies, his care for his uncle and his nightly activities with the kind of training and rehearsing a performance such as this necessitated, was beyond Watson. But there he was, in a badly fitted tailcoat, shoes that had seen better days, blond hair bound back in a tight pony tail, his amber eyes closed in enthralled concentration, barely ever looking at the sheet of music in front of him.

John gritted his teeth. Alfred had nothing of Sherlock, not the looks, not the elegance and grace; the fierce will to excel himself every time he played wasn't there, nor the briefest of sad, forlorn looks when he put the instrument down between pieces. And yet – if Watson just closed his eyes and _listened_….

John was enthusiastic about the performance and he told Vanessa so. Briefly, their overall goal to make a last search for John's 'brother' was shoved to the back of his mind.

However, during the intermission Vanessa insisted on an introduction to the Musils and John went reluctantly to obtain it.

The professor had trouble to remember him but Alfred had not. With a stream of happy sounding German words, far too rapid for Watson's limited knowledge of the language, the young man shook hands, in the excessive German way, and dragged them to his uncle. For a while the Musils and Vanessa chatted happily away in German, leaving John feeling a bit out of the loop.

Finally, the bell rang and 'the Browns' as Musil insisted on calling John and Vanessa, had to resume their seats.

The second half of the concert was as brilliant as the first and afterwards Vanessa was overjoyed to get Alfred's personal invitation to join him and his uncle for a sort of launch party.

Vanessa was whirled away from John's arm almost the moment they arrived. At first Watson was irritated – in fact much more than that – but then he told himself that he was with an artist, among other artists, for the first time in his life and that he just didn't – couldn't – know the rules. Except for one – being the spoil sport for Vanessa could only make things worse.

After a while, he drifted into the professor, who was talking to a little fat man roughly of John's age. The man seemed happy enough with the conversation, but old Mr Musil appeared strained. "Oh Mr Brown" he exclaimed, with audible joy, "you must meet Mr Moran, from the States. Utah, wasn't it?"

The American confirmed it and allowed himself quite willingly to be handed over to the British army surgeon in disguise. Musil made a polite but happy escape.

John had flinched at the stranger's name. He scrutinized the other while Moran talked. Firms' names, shareholder jokes, a complaint that business occupied too much valuable life time, such as the time one needed for concerts – the chatter rushed by John's ears, almost unheard. After a few minutes, Moran's enthusiasm tired due to lack of response from his counterpart. "Am I boring you, Mr Brown?"

"Not in the least" John made haste to flip back into reality. "It's just that …. do you have any family in the UK, Mr Moran? Military people, perhaps?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I think I've known a Colonel Sebastian Moran and his brother once. But it's not an uncommon name, is it."

"You're military yourself, Mr Brown?"

"Army surgeon. With the British fusiliers. But long ago and best forgotten." John felt uncomfortable all of a sudden. He hated people who answered a question with a question, they made him nervous.

Moran smiled good-naturedly. "Then you must be much older than you look, old chap, if it was _that_ long ago."

"_Not that as well_" John thought, as he thoroughly disliked the Continental or American habit of adopting what they thought to be genuine British idiosyncrasies like 'old chap' or 'old sport' or 'you know' in every second sentence.

"Figure of speech, in a way" Watson therefore replied, clearly irritated. "If you'll excuse me, Mr Moran, my Lady friend..."

Unruffled by the unmistakable rebuke, Moran grabbed Watson's sleeve and stopped him. "The little chestnut filly, yes? Respect, old chap, respect. She's a stunner, that one is. You don't look it, if I may say so."

"No you may _not_" John retorted, scandalized. With an abrupt turn he walked away, ignoring the laughing apologies Moran offered in his back.

Watson found Vanessa at the wine buffet, in high spirits. He laid his arm around her and she snuggled up to him without losing one step in her animatedly talking to Alfred. John just listened to her going on and on about her beloved profession. About her new role as Lady Macbeth, of course. The ingenuity of the production, the subtle subtext worked out by it etc. etc. pp. The challenge it meant, the step in her career it could be and how divine the director was and so much in love with his second husband.

It was only then that Alfred could put in a word of his own. "Sind Sie nur für diese Rolle nach Deutschland gekommen?"

"Oh no" Vanessa laughed. "I've been living in Germany for the most time of my life. I've studied in Ireland and England, but I always wanted to come back here. By the way, if you understand English very well, why do you refuse to speak it?"

"Ich spreche nicht sehr gut" Alfred said, a bit defiantly. "Ich kann meine Fehler hören und als Musiker wie als Literaturexperte geht mir das auf die Nerven."

With an effort, John figured out what that meant and thought that indeed, for a musician and a fan of classic literature, listening to himself stammering his way through a foreign language might be shameful. The more so, as John noticed only now as he stood closer to Alfred for a longer time than ever before, that the young man had crooked teeth, which might add to his difficulties with the English language.

Vanessa laid her hand on the young man's arm in a soothing manner. "You are a perfectionist then, Mr Musil. Like me."

Alfred blushed, in John's opinion from embarrassment. Vanessa, however, took it for irritation and quickly pulled her hand back. "Perrchaps" Alfred said laboriously. "I allvayss trry my best in everryssing."

John and Vanessa winced simultaneously at the quite horrible German accent and the musician blushed an even deeper purple. "Sehen Sie?" he said angrily, what John easily interpreted as 'you see'. "Ich sage doch, ich bin nicht gut."

"_Not good is a euphemism_" thought John, unkindly. He didn't like the way Vanessa looked at the young man. As if she would like to bite a piece off. "Shall we go, my love?" he asked. "It's getting late. You have an early start tomorrow."

"Yes, quite" Vanessa agreed, took a quick leave from Alfred, invited him to her premier performance in six weeks and John breathed easier when they were outside the building and on their way home.

"You know, I really thought it could be him" she said in the cab, musingly. "Some things about Alfred, some mannerisms, are so very much cliché, I thought it could be a clever disguise."

John had the distinct impression that she was waiting for something from him, almost surreptitiously. "Him?" he asked. "Who him?"

"Your brother" she answered. "The man you're looking for. Do not deny it, you think of him every day that dawns. And you've suspected it yourself. Why sneak on the Musils under an alias if you did not smell a rat? Mr_ Brown!_ You only told me they might have seen your brother some time, not that you played James Bond with them."

"It was a whole collection of cliché they had there" he said, evading her question. "This American alone – like a character cut out off a bad movie from the forties."

"Moran?" Vanessa said lightly, dropping her former subject without insistence. Perhaps it had occurred to her that John could not mistake his own brother for some German musician, no matter how clever the disguise was.

"Moran is not American at all" she said instead. "He's spent years in the U.S., that much is true, but he's trying so hard to play act the typical American that he fails miserably. He's as Irish as me."

"Did he tell you so?" John asked, truly amazed.

"Of course not, don't be stupid" she retorted. "I'm an actress, do you think I cannot recognize a poor performance when I see one? Or _hear _one, rather? He tries so hard to hide his accent, he only makes it more prominent. I say he's from Belfast."

"Interesting" John muttered to himself.

"You're sure you've never met Alfred before?" Vanessa said.

"Forget it, will you? This is real life, not a costume drama. Would I not recognize Sher... my own brother if I saw him?" John felt he was sweating cold. Actress or no, he'd never suspected Vanessa could be interested in criminal investigations.

"Sorry, darling" she said, closed her eyes and buried her nose in his neck with a purring sound of satisfaction. "Anyway, it will be good to be home. It is late!"

And it was even later when they actually went to sleep. Vanessa, once switched into the cat-mood, had no wish to give it up too soon and when John finally closed his eyes for good, he was far too exhausted to give this weird evening any more thoughts. "_Artists_" was all he fleetingly thought. "W_hat do I know about artists? I've only known the one and he suffered from Asperger's. Although – it wasn't really him who did the suffering__ from it__, was __he_?"

John had a bad dream that night, a veritable nightmare, that he fortunately couldn't remember when he accompanied Vanessa to the theatre. She was tired, and looked it for a change – in other words a perfect opportunity to go through the sleep walking scene again. Or so the director thought. John left his love in a heated discussion with the man about the proper approach to the scene, knowing that this would wake his woman up like nothing else ever could.

Watson did some shopping, took their evening outfits to the laundry, got himself a Latte Macchiato and walked back home. It was still quite early, shops had just opened. It was raining – again! Had been raining all night, in fact.

What _was_ that about this year's summer in Berlin? Might have stayed in London or Edinburgh, but for Vanessa. She was all the sunshine he needed.

As John fumbled for his keys, something stirred before his feet and he jerked back.

A man rose from the front stairs, lean, soaked, his blond hair sticking to his head, shivering from cold.

"Alfred" John exclaimed, appalled by the young man's downtrodden appearance.

"May I come in?" the student asked, his jaw chattering pitiably. "I must talk to you."

"Please, by all means."

Once inside, the young man made himself quite at home in an instant. He took the most comfortable chair, right by the fireside – John had actually a small gas fire going, it was one of the flat's luxuries and the summer did nothing to make the warmth superfluous – and, without any further ado, rid himself of his wet shirt. "Do you have a towel?"

John cocked a brow at the somewhat presumptuous manner of his guest, but obliged happily enough nonetheless. When he came back to the living room with a towel he had already reconciled himself to Alfred's blunt style by thinking that this might be the modern German way of being casual.

Alfred grabbed the towel without as much as a 'thank you'.

Or shouldn't he have said 'danke' anyway?

"Did you do some language training during the night" a bewildered Watson smiled. "Your English sounds perfect to me."

The young man shrugged, pulled the blond wig from his head, and rubbed his black mane vigorously. "Don't be ridiculous, John. Why should I have forgotten my native tongue, just because I've been speaking mostly German for a few weeks?"

For a long, long moment, all John heard was his blood rushing through his head. He felt as if he would shatter into a thousand pieces any second. Then, without knowing what he was doing, he lunged out and punched the younger man in the face.

Sherlock Holmes fell to the floor without a sound, the towel still firmly in his grip.


	29. Errors of judgement

**29 Errors of judgement**

John was tight lipped when he helped a moaning and badly shaken-up Sherlock to the couch before he went to the kitchen for some ice. On his return, Holmes had recovered enough to open his eyes and give his former flatmate a withering glare.

"Here, put that on your face" John said, ignoring the other's accusing gaze.

Sherlock grabbed the towel with the ice and used it to ease the pain in his jaw. He didn't grace Watson with another look, let alone word.

A key rattled in the lock of the door and in walked Vanessa, a radiant smile on her lips. "John, I...oh" Belatedly she became aware of the stranger sitting on the couch.

"Who's that?" demanded Sherlock, somewhat muffled by the towel on his mouth.

"You know her" Watson snapped back. "Or have you become forgetful?"

"Oh, right" murmured the Detective. "Vanessa, yes? You're John's present dame of heart!"

John groaned before he took Holmes by the chin. "Let me have a look at your eye" he said. "And she's not my dame of heart, or any of your other stupid descriptions, Vanessa and I are friends, and it's no business of yours anyhow."

As he had thought, Sherlock's left eye was swelling, fast. No wonder he hadn't recognized Vanessa, with one eye half behind the towel and the other barely operational.

Holmes huffed angrily and pulled his head away.

John snarled irritably, grabbed the chin again and forced the head back into the light.

"Ow" Sherlock howled. "That hurts!"

"May I remind the two gentlemen that I'm still standing here, waiting for an explanation?" Vanessa asked politely.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, I must speak to John immediately, he's behaved like an asshole and if you do not want to stand, sit down and shut up!"

"Oh" her face lit up in sudden revelation "You're the lost brother. John, how wonderful for you. What has happened?"

Sherlock stared at John's pale face. "_Brother_?" he mouthed silently.

John shook his head urgently. His traditional way of saying "_long story, don't ask._"

A vicious sparkle came to Sherlock's eyes. Suddenly he turned to Vanessa, let the towel fall and gave her the best and most charming lopsided grin he could muster in spite of his injuries. "He lied to you, you know? I'm not his brother at all. We shared a flat for a while, and you know John, we became very close. I wanted out of the relationship, he ran after me, it's all very pathetic really. So, and now he's with a _woman_..."

Holmes let his voice fade away in a very meaningful manner while his eyes wandered over Vanessa's body critically, as if he beheld her for the very first time and wasn't sure he liked what he saw. Finally he grinned and said "well, we should always be open for a little experimenting, don't you think?"

By now, Vanessa was very pale, her chin was quivering and she was clearly not amused. Then her gaze fell on the blond wig on the floor and the false teeth on the table and her frown deepened. "So it _was_ you, last night, _Alfred_! I thought so, from the start." She glared at Watson. Like Sherlock had guessed, she thought it impossible that John had not recognized his friend the night before, at close range. The only plausible explanation was that Watson had lied to her. And, of course, she thought exactly that. "John? Is there anything you might wish to tell me?"

Honestly, John's most fervent wish was to punch Sherlock again until he screamed. "Ignore him Vanessa. Sometimes he's hell-bent on causing trouble. It's in his nature, he can't help it."

Her lips were white when she answered. "I see. I came home after today's rehearsal was cancelled. I thought you might be glad but if I'm no longer wanted here..."

"Vanessa, please..." John tried to remedy a situation that no longer could be remedied.

"... I might as well go and see some friends" she continued, visibly agitated "friends of _mine." _And out she swept in a rush; John's attempt at jumping into her way was far too slow.

Watson ran after her but the lift swallowed her before he could catch up.

John stood in the corridor, silently fuming with suppressed rage. "_How dare he. How dare he go away and come back as he pleases, only to offend the woman I love, just as he did with Sarah_."

"Are you ready to talk now?" Sherlock asked cheerily from inside the flat. "I guess she'll take a while, to sob on a sympathetic shoulder. A _male_ shoulder, perhaps?"

John turned on his heel, marched back into his flat, grabbed Sherlock by the collar, pulled him to his feet and nailed him to the house bar. Thankfully, the cabinet with the expensive, fragile equipment was fastened to the floor. "Shut _up_, y' hear me? One word, just one more word from you, and I'll break every bone Moriarty has spared! Understood?"

"When you're done shaking me to pieces" Sherlock gasped "you could let me explain."

"I. AM. NOT. DONE. SHAKING. YOU. TO. PIECES!"

"Heavens, I've stumbled on true love" Sherlock sneered into a face contorted with genuine wrath. Yet, behind his contemptuous bravado sherlock wasn't comfortable, not with his spine being pressed against the sharp edge of the cabinet and his head bent back awkwardly. _And_, Watson showed no signs of cooling down. "Sorry, John, but she's so very much not your style."

With a last hard push Sherlock landed on his backside right in front of the barstool. "Don't you dare criticize her" John roared "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Holmes raised his hands. "Can't you see it yourself? She's all glamour, but not very smart. She's – not your class. I thought..." he cut himself short.

"What? You thought what?" John was still screaming.

"John, I ask you, you and a phony, cuddly pussy-cat from the Barnum and Bailey world. Vanessa is all make-belief. She couldn't hold a candle to Sarah!"

And John's wrath imploded on itself, bringing him back to earth with a hard bang. "What the hell do you know about women" he muttered, but his heart was no longer in it. "I knew you wouldn't like Vanessa, from the very start."

"May I get up, please?" Sherlock asked timidly, with another crooked grin from the very bottom of his own costume-box of personal charms.

Suddenly, John couldn't stand him any more. "Do what you want" he snapped, and went into the kitchen where he busied himself with tidying up the breakfast table, knowing full well that Sherlock would never sink so low as to help him with that.

However, he was mistaken. It took but a second and his friend – if he could still be called that! - was at his side. A while later, John found himself wiping an already spotless kitchen counter for the third time and decided to retreat into his bedroom.

To which Sherlock followed him like an affectionate little poodle.

Unnerved, John darted round. "What do you want, damn it?"

"As I said, to talk to you. I need your help!"

"Oooh" Watson said sarcastically, "if you put it _that _way. You need the help of a vulgar, smug, mentally deprived man who takes you for a cripple in need of a shoulder to lean on? That were, correct me from wrong, your last words to me."

"I can't find my brother!" Sherlock said with a tiny little voice John had never heard from him before.

Watson wanted to walk on, lock the bedroom door behind him and imagine that the madman wasn't there. Considering Sherlock's aversion against boredom and empty time, he'd be gone when John emerged from his refuge. And this time it would be for good. No search, no heart ache, just Vanessa and eternal bliss. Now there's a thought!

Instead, John froze in mid-stride. "Sherlock" he said, exhausted "you're mixing things up here. _You_ were the one who couldn't be found. You lied to me, doubtlessly you lied to your brother, too, so my best guess is, Mycroft has just given up on you, like I have. Period!"

"It's not like that. I admit I … didn't want to be found. I had to do this on my own, it's very important to me. But now... until three days ago I could phone Mycroft any time of the day, tell him where his men could collect the scum I'm after, but since then..." he shrugged helplessly "nothing."

"So this whole scene you made at Starbuck's, all this talk about your poor ransacked little soul, your need to find your salvation in music, the whole, humiliating, agonizing scene was a cheap trick from your acting kit" John said without turning. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. "Did you ever, for one second, think about how I would feel, standing there, in front of everyone, listening to your insults, your unjust accusations. Did you?"

Now John _did_ turn round and stared the other into the face. "Did you? Think about anyone but yourself, _e__ver_?"

"I'm worrying about Mycroft right now." Still the peculiarly meek voice. "_I'm walking on thin ice here, John. Without you, I won't make it_."

Alas, John was no longer interested in Sherlock Holmes' subtexts. "Then go back to London and tell him. It has nothing to do with me."

"You said you would help me, you said you'd stick with me, in Baker Street, before we went to Angelo's, you said that."

"And for a reward you told me I could go and fuck myself" John roared in regained rage.

Sherlock turned away and combed all ten fingers through his hair. "Listen to us" he muttered "we could as well be a married couple quarrelling about our next holiday."

"I do not pretend to know what's going on in your brilliant mind-palace" John retorted "I for one fail to see any humour in the situation. If you'll excuse me, I've got better things to do."

Sherlock called after him as he walked away "Mycroft must be in danger, there's no other explanation. Your quarrel is with me, not with him."

Again, John halted. He searched for the final cutting remark to once and for all end this horrible conversation. If it went on, he'd sure be whining it all out in a minute. "_I've been looking for you, for five years, there wasn't a single day I've not been thinking of you, of what has hap__pened to you, what they've done to you. My marriage went to shambles over it, my whole life was a mess. Without you and your idiotic profession I have no purpose in life, no sense, no meaning. Hell knows what I should call it, I do not love you, the way I __loved Sarah, but God help me, I __**need**__ you, you and your absurd adventure life, I need you like I need the air to breathe_."

The mere thoughts made John's cheeks grow hot with shame. No, he couldn't say it. If he did, he'd sound like a whining, grudging wife. In fact he'd sound like Sarah.

Naturally, the doctor searched the few decisive seconds too long for the perfect, acid repartee. Sherlock was much faster. "Please, John. I know I don't deserve your help, but please – would you go to London and check up on Mycroft? For him, not for me?"

"Why can't you just phone his staff and ask them? Or better even, why can't you go yourself? There are affordable direct flights from Berlin to London, every day" John fought his lost cause, one last time, to go down honourably at least.

"I'm in the middle of an investigation, it's at a critical point. I can't leave now."

"What investigation? What investigation would be more important than Mycroft, _if_ you're that worried about him?"

Sherlock lowered his head, gnawed on his lower lip, looked at the other furtively through his black mane. A picture of crestfallen, misunderstood and much wronged innocence. "I can't talk about it."

An embittered John huffed ironically "Of course you can't. Don't bother, I'd be too stupid to comprehend it anyway."

"That's not it, you must believe me, John."

"Believe you? Have you ever... no, don't run away now, I'm not yet through with you, you selfish bastard. Have you _ever_ told me the truth at all, in anything?"

"I'm telling you the truth now. I'm sick with worrying about Mycroft and I can't tell you about the investigation because the case is not mine, it's his. It's highly sensitive, sensitive enough to convince me, of all people, that I have to keep my mouth shut. It's in the best interest of the country" Holmes appealed to the other's always ready patriotism.

"A moment ago you said it was important to _you_, that you had to do it on your own" John pointed out irritably, refusing the bait.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in utter despair. "Mycroft thinks that I should no longer work as an investigator. I must prove to him that I have not lost my ability. You know my brother's methods; if he wanted me off the streets, he'd get me off the streets, one way or another. He isn't choosy. And there's still the little matter of the weapon plans I stole."

Watson hesitated. That, from all he knew from and about the elder brother, rang true. "So you persuaded Mycroft to let you go to Berlin, but he wrapped you in a cocoon?"

"If you want to call it a cocoon" Sherlock snapped back. "I call it a straitjacket! And if I wanted to call his staff because I'm at my wits' end, I could as well tell the people from the booby hatch that I've seen a unicorn in the garden, eating lilies."

"Roses" John corrected automatically. "The unicorn ate roses."

"I leave the choice of flowers to you." Sherlock jumped from one foot to the other with impatience and nervousness. "Will you help me? Please?"

"All right" Watson said tiredly. "Let's make a deal. I call Vanessa, tell her I've to go to London for three days, I'll check up on Mycroft, and then I'll come back here. I expect you to be here, and before I tell you what I have found out, you tell me all there is to tell about this investigation of yours and why you made a complete fool of me by playing Alfred right under my nose. Deal?"

Sherlock smiled radiantly. "Deal" he said, with audible relief. "I promise, I won't let you down this time. I promise!"

Watson didn't look very convinced but, after they had somehow - and John had no idea _how_ - agreed on Sherlock staying in John's flat until his return, the doctor went ordering a ticket for a flight and then packing. If someone had asked him why he did this, he would have been at a loss for an answer.

Fortunately, when she took John's call, Vanessa had calmed down considerably. No, she wasn't mad at him, just at his impossible brother/friend/lover, whatever he was. And yes, she would wait for John's return to listen to what he had to say for himself. Good-bye, darling, take care. I love you, Dr John Watson from London, England.

After that, John was hilarious with relief and happiness. Not even Sherlock's constant bickering about the time he took packing could bother him now.

90 minutes later, John was on the street waiting for a taxi that would bring him to the airport. He would only just make it in time to Berlin-Tegel. When the creamy white limousine stopped by his side, he didn't look at it twice but just glided on the back-seat and closed the door.

"Good morning, Dr Watson" Carruthers kindly said. "Long time no see."

On first impulse, Watson wanted to jump out of the car again, but naturally the door was locked. Thank God for a good old-fashioned child safety lock.

John relaxed when a thought hit home – and he grinned sheepishly. "Let me guess – Mycroft's here, in Berlin, isn't he? To smack little brother's bottom?"

Carruthers didn't confirm that in so many words but with a knowing smile. "He's awaiting you, doctor. At Mr Demirkan's office. I trust Mr Holmes, Mr _Sherlock_ Holmes that is, will stay in your flat for a while?"

"You bet he will" John grinned. "Should be no problem to pick him up."

"Indeed" Carruthers replied. "We've waited long enough for such an opportunity."

They drove through the bustling city in amicable silence, until John frowned. "That's not the way to Mr Demirkan's office" he said.

"Oh yes, we have to take another road."

"Listen Carruthers, I may not be a Holmes, but I know south from north. We are heading in the wrong direction!"

The young agent sighed sadly. "If you insist, doctor..."

A second later John stared dumbfounded into the muzzle of the man's weapon. "Please, Dr Watson, sit tight and enjoy the ride. It won't be long."


	30. When the battle's lost and won

**30 **** When the battle's lost and won**

When he saw John vanish inside the taxi, Sherlock left the flat's balcony, went inside and took out his mobile. "C'me on, c'me on" he muttered impatiently while he listened to the signal.

"Mycroft" he bellowed as soon as the call was taken "About time, too. John's on his way and I _trust_ you will not leave him out of your sight again."

"_Brother dearest_" Mycroft's usual ironic serenity dripped out of the phone "_how nice of you to call and say you still do trust me_."

"Believe me, I don't" the younger brother retorted snappily. "Did you process this actress, as I told you?"

"_Vanessa? Yes, I did. Born in Ireland, raised in Germany most of the time, studied acting at a prestigious London school, went back to Berlin afterwards. Pretty__ dull, if you ask me."_

Sherlock snorted. "So she's exactly what she claims to be. A little girl, far beneath John's level. I thought so. Pity I called you for that."

"Ye_s, hearing your voice is nice for me too. All these little gifts you gave to me and the__ BND … and all the bad birds sing and sing, my and the Germans' interrogators are working over time. It's like Christmas. But all the time you've been avoiding us, you naughty boy_."

Sherlock closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, meticulously and tried to stay calm. "If my present target had not made a surprise visit to last night's reception, I'd not phoned you at all. Nor had I shown up in John's flat in broad daylight."

"_Don't I know it, dear boy. Your little heart must've missed a beat when __the villain and Wa__tson stood side by side. To think that you invited John to the reception in the first place! And naturally I know your call had nothing to do with you needing my help to secure the biggest catch of all_."

While the elder brother patiently waited for the other's response to that underhand jibe, Sherlock heard the chime of Big Ben in the background. "You're in your London town office" he accused the elder "what the hell are you doing there?"

"_Sherlock, believe it or not, there are other pressing issues on my a__genda besides catching the last big fry of the late Moriarty's organisation. Carruthers is in charge of the support mission. He and Demirkan's allies from the German Federal Police will show up just in time before the scoundrel kills you. At least, that's __the plan."_

Mycroft was glad that Sherlock could not see him in that moment. In fact, Tarantula had a painful pressure on his chest, and he knew it wouldn't go away until Carruthers called him to say that all was well, that the last dangerous cornerstone of Moriarty's criminal empire was in custody, and that Sherlock was safe and sound.

Unlike Prof Chang, who'd been focused on the Black Lotos anyway, Sherlock had known that Moriarty's network was in shambles, but that it would not necessarily stay that way forever. Surely there was one who could – and would – take over, and the dangerous, lethal spider's web would come back to life. An idea so lucrative as Criminal Consultancy would not be abandoned and forgotten.

So the spider's net had to be destroyed bit by bit.

Again and again, Sherlock had used himself as a bait for Moriarty's associates. The growing list of arrests had either lured the criminals and their contacts in politics and big business to Berlin or made them nervous enough to make mistakes. Mistakes that blew their cover and made them vulnerable to prosecution, in Germany, the U. S., France, Britain... Each and every arrest had brought interrogations and from them, more intelligence as to the rest of the vast criminal network the Consulting Criminal had created. A snowball system that had unrolled Moriarty's organisation from one end to the other.

Indeed, it had been Christmas for Demirkan, the Police National de France, the British authorities – for anyone but Mycroft Holmes, who hadn't had a restful sleep in weeks.

For the one person the Holmes brother suspected of the ability to fill James Moriarty's shoes had _not_ shown up. Not until last night, when Sherlock, no doubt with baited breath, had seen this person merrily chatting with his friend John Watson, the one man he had tried to keep out of the whole operation at all costs, for John's own protection.

The shock had been a harsh punishment for Sherlock, who had idiotically given in to his childish joy in masquerades and invited John to the reception, just to see if he could fool his friend even on close range.

Until then, Mycroft had had some news as to Sherlock's whereabouts and well-being, but whenever he'd tried to get hold of his younger brother, 'Alfred Musil' had found a way to avoid his brother's vigilance. But after last night's reception, Sherlock finally had phoned his brother and called for help.

So, whilst they were talking on the phone, even the little one's outrageous insolence was a relief to Mycroft. At least Sherlock had agreed to full police support this time. Only three hours ago Carruthers had called and told Tarantula that all had been arranged.

"_Sherlock, take care" _Mycroft could not refrain from saying "_It's not much of a safety net, no false bottom to hide under. You know th__e Germans are allergic against surveillance gadgets in private houses. You're pretty much on your own in this_."

"I don't have time for a friendly chat" Sherlock said irritably. "Make sure you do not blow it, Mr Secret Service."

The line was terminated and Mycroft sighed. He had no idea what he would do when this was finally over and his little brother was back in London and in Baker Street for good. Perhaps he'd go as far and pay the nearest church a visit or some other superstitious nonsense.

But for now, he had other things to take care of. Like, making sure that Sherlock, on his return, would again have a home in 221B Baker Street, not just a flat. Mycroft pressed a button on his desk and Anthea answered the call immediately. "Sir?"

"Please tell my driver I'm going to Heathrow to pick up Dr Watson" Tarantula said. "I think it will be best if I explain things to him myself."

Anthea, who had been of that opinion right from the start, sent for the car with a silent prayer to heaven. If all went well, her boss would be himself again by this time next week, a state of affairs rich in blessings that had been denied to her and Tarantula's department far too long.

Later, when an angry, uncharacteristically agitated Mycroft called her from the airport to tell her that the John Watson on the plane had been the wrong man with the right name, things in Berlin had gone far too much out of hand for the wretched assistant to do anything about it.

And yet, from where Sherlock had been standing, everything had went according to plan at first.

Only half an hour after he'd spoken to Mycroft, the lock at the door had been picked and a man had entered the flat stealthily. Holmes had lost no time and made his presence known by a bored remark. "Mr Moran. You took your time."

The visitor darted round to see the Detective swinging round in a swivel chair.

Sherlock cocked a brow at the sight of the alleged American's weapon. "A 357 Magnum. Classical, but a bit showy, don't you think?"

Moran had obviously overcome his surprise, as he smiled approvingly. "Mr Holmes! I did not believe you'd confront me like this. I was expecting to take Dr Watson for a walk."

"Sorry, John couldn't make it" Sherlock replied lazily. "Now, where does that leave us?" His hands played with his jacket's lapel. The left side, where the almost invisible transmitter was fastened that would tell Carruthers to get ready for the Coup de Grace.

"It leaves you in hot water up to your neck" Moran said. "You liquidated anyone who could have come in my way when I finally take over dear James' legacy. That was fine with me. But, now that you've become a nuisance..." The man shrugged. "I'm afraid I'm no longer amused by your antics, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock was clearly not impressed. "There is not much you can do about them. Especially not as the bird you came to cage has flown."

Moran sat down on the living room table with one buttock, still smiling contently. The weapon never wavered, he had the Detective at point blank range. "So you think I've come to take revenge for my beloved comrades, and for my life-long dream destroyed? Wake up, Mr Holmes, this is the real world, not a third-class TV drama. And I..." his grin became apologetic "am not Sebastian."

"The Colonel shot the wrong man in France" Holmes said engagingly. "It was you who stole Sebastian's fortune away, not your youngest brother."

Moran nodded with feigned regret. "And it was me who introduced Sebastian to James Moriarty, when James told me he was in need of an Air Force Pilot with an impeccable record and some overly expensive passions."

"You had the position Sebastian always craved" Sherlock still spoke in the same, polite, conversational manner, sure that Carruthers would record every sound, "as James' confidant and trustee of his interests in the U.S."

"Correct, Sherlock. May I call you Sherlock? James always did."

"Tell me" Holmes said, instead of answering that question "did you check on your U.S. accounts and firms lately? You will find that the NSA and others have had a lot to say about Moriarty's American interests during the last 24 hours."

"Lies, Mr Holmes" Moran countered. "My balance sheets, my accounts – all spotless. My lawyers and tax advisers are the best money can buy." He grinned broader. "Millions I swindle off the U.S. per year and they do not even guess."

Sherlock was all indulgence. "If you're so sure of that, by all means, go on deluding yourself."

Moran waved his free hand dismissively. "To think that a man as brilliant as James Moriarty could waste his affection on a blown-up fake like you. I told him to finally shoot you through the head, many times. But he was besotted with you."

Sherlock's voice was laced with sarcasm. "But not with you, you poor, bereaved man."

Moran rose, all signs of politeness gone. "Shut your mouth or I'll..."

Holmes kept his casual façade, but behind it, he was getting nervous. Where the hell was Carruthers' team? Surely what the Americans had found out and what had been said here today was more than enough to nail Moran down?

In this moment, the flat's door was indeed opened again, but not by an assaulting police force.

Quietly. And by a fitting key.

For a gruesome, paralysing second Sherlock was sure that John had missed his flight and was returning home, to run directly into Moran's line of fire. Screaming wouldn't help, it would only speed up the bloodshed.

Holmes tensed all muscles, ready to jump as soon as Moran would look to the side for a split second. Surely it wouldn't be enough to save Sherlock's life but it might just be enough to save John. Blast Carruthers' stupid laziness and all the overpaid, overrated and underbrained government lapdogs in this world!

The chance came. Moran looked at the newcomer and Sherlock jumped.

He grabbed the criminal's arm, and a hard kick with the knee hit Moran's groins. The alleged American grunted and stepped back. Sherlock knew he'd gained a decisive advantage and he looked to the side, expecting to see a stunned army surgeon, trying hard – and far too slow, as usual – to figure out what's was what. "_Get out, John._" He wanted to shout it, but what he saw let the words die in his throat.

Moran saw his chance and he took it. He avoided the mistake of raising his weapon, instead the steel muzzle punched Sherlock's ribs with all force Moran could muster. The effect was that of a blunt knife being stabbed into the ribcage and Holmes was winded by the sudden pain. Briefly, just for a moment, but it was enough.

Moran's arm that held the Magnum came free and, with one smooth movement, he pushed Sherlock away.

On every other day, it wouldn't have helped the fat, untrained criminal. By all rights Sherlock, younger, more agile and hell-bent on bringing his opponent down, would have been victorious, at the cost of his own life if needs be.

Alas, today was different.

Vanessa, who had returned to the flat on heaven may know what idiotic female whim, hung limply in her captor's arm, visibly scared witless by the muzzle that pressed against her temple. She was white as chalk, her eyes were wide, frozen in shock, and she whimpered softly.

Sherlock pressed his hands against his ribs. He blinked rapidly to clear his view from the tears the sudden pain had forced into his eyes. He glared at Moran furiously, but they both knew the fight was over.

"As you were, Mr Holmes" Moran commanded sharply. "I know a dozen ways to make some holes into you both, without making you unfit for what I have in mind!"

Sherlock, still panting, racked his brain for a solution. His thoughts stumbled over each other in a frantic attempt to come up with _anything_.

Yet all his brilliance, all his instincts and all his determination were useless as one thought continued to oust all others: "_If this woman gets hurt, I might as well take a gun and blow John's brain out and then my own_."

John Watson had already lost one great love because of Sherlock Holmes. As far as Sherlock was concerned, this one loss had been one too many.

There would not be a second one.

Sherlock raised his hands in surrender.


	31. Fine Jade

**31 Fine jade**

"Dear me, Moran" Sherlock said. "And I thought this was about you and _me_!"

"You're supposed to be clever" the man replied. "I guess you're even clever enough to guess what it is I want from you?"

Moran ignored Vanessa's constant whimpering but Sherlock couldn't stand the pitiable sounds. "Stop whining" he told her, and it was only partly to fool Moran. "You're looking horrid enough as it is."

She screamed, just once, when Moran grabbed her by the throat. "you better stop the foolish pretence, Mr Holmes. We both know you would not let her die in your place."

"Won't she die anyway?" Sherlock asked, and Vanessa whimpered louder.

"Come, come, Sherlock, no need to be rude" Moran teased him, taking no notice of his hostage's anguish. "Give me the data and you can have her, all in one piece."

"Data?" Holmes shot back.

Moran laughed softly. "Nobody was able to retrieve anything of value from James' database in Grunewald, except the stuff he'd stored about you. Knowing Jenkins, I say he left that behind on purpose, as he erased everything else."

"Is this going anywhere?"

"The information you needed to destroy James' organisation – you took it from James' database. But not even you, for all your admitted brilliance, can have stored all the data about James' empire in your brain. Over the years, you collected it, stored it somehow, somewhere; and you wouldn't tell anyone, not even your brother Mycroft, where to find it."

"You're nuts" Holmes retorted coldly. "How should I have done that? I was under a 24 hours surveillance."

"For which Sebastian was responsible, until you two eloped into the sunset" Moran retorted. "Together you and my late brother smuggled the data out. It was the one thing James never suspected, that you planted the perfect bomb to blow his empire to pieces, but were too much of a coward, cringing in fear for your friends, to fire it."

"Naturally I learned a lot about his network during my time with Moriarty" Sherlock said haughtily. "But why take the risk of collecting data that could get me killed? Sooner or later one of his own would betray him." He pointed at Moran with disdain. "Someone like you. _You_ denounced James to Chinese intelligence. So that you could keep the shares in the weapon firms to yourself, before James could sell them in favour of the Midair fortune!"

"In which I had no cut" Moran shrugged. "The shares held the majorities; the new owner would have chucked me out in no time. A bit unfair, wouldn't you agree?"

"James shouldn't have told you the details of his plans" Holmes replied, not looking at the terrified woman. "He must have trusted you, idiot that he was."

Moran pouted. "He also trusted in his ability to keep you in check. Poor fool indeed." Then he made one step towards Sherlock, dragging Vanessa with him, his gun still at her head. "The data, Mr Holmes, before I have to get nasty."

"Even if there were such data" Holmes asked "what would you want with it? The organisation is no more, the bank accounts are stripped, the phantom companies dissolved..."

"Not all of them" Moran cut in. "Up to the day he died James had hopes to start from scratch. For that he needed money, connections, a hiding place, associates and some new, profitable ideas. You know how and where to find them. The information or the life of this bitch, choice is yours!"

Sherlock faltered visibly, and it was not completely a show. "Let go of her. I'll show you the place where I hid the data, if you leave her here. The way she's whining, you can take her nowhere."

"She's cuddly" Moran said. Sherlock almost gagged when he grabbed Vanessa's breast and twisted it until she cried. "If Watson values her, I suggest you think again, Sherlock."

Holmes pondered his options. As soon as Moran had what he wanted, he would kill both captives. The longer this took, the better the chances that Carruthers finally showed up. _If_ the agent showed up. Something was most definitely wrong with him. Perhaps, if enough time elapsed, Mycroft would become alarmed and sent in the cavalry with or without Carruthers' signal. So the best option was to stall.

"There is no stored data" Sherlock therefore claimed again. "All the information is in my head. And I won't cooperate. Shoot her, if you want to. She's not my type any road."

Moran paled and gritted his teeth. "We'll see about that."

He let go of Vanessa, but only to order her to take a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. A moment later the girl cuffed Sherlock's hands behind his back. She was so clumsy in her fear that she effectively blocked every chance Holmes might have had to get to his enemy.

"Get out of the way" Moran snorted. Roughly, he pushed Vanessa on the couch where she curled up, perfectly useless in her senseless horror.

Sherlock winced when Moran took off his belt, but the man just used it to bind Holmes' arms at the elbows, before he tied a thin wire around his captive's neck. Sherlock knew from bad experience that struggling against such a choke was virtually impossible. Already now the wire cut into the scar in his neck.

"Now, Mr Holmes" Moran said, pulling at the wire for good measure "Berlin is a party town. These new flats are soundproof. I can do whatever I want. To you and the Lady. You can listen to her screaming as long as you want. You will tell me all I want to know in the end. Best do it now."

Holmes kept silent. He could have kicked Moran, even bit the brute, but there was no advantage to be gained by it. So he just held still.

He winced, though, when the pull on the wire became stronger. "Let's get it over with. You didn't have much time when you hacked into James' databases. What was it, half an hour in this night, when Sebastian stood guard, half an hour the other day, when James was busy elsewhere and Jenkins had a nap? Eh? It can't have been many hours a day." Absent minded, the muzzle of Moran's gun combed through Sherlock's hair. "Nobody, not even you, could memorize this amount of data, just by looking at it every now and then. Besides, as far as I know, James changed accounts, addresses, and aliases. Where did you store the information, Sherlock?"

Holmes gritted his teeth. Mycroft, you idiot, WAKE UP!

Moran ran out of patience. "Answer me, blast you!" Sherlock couldn't resist the pressure that forced him to his knees. Moran's boot kicked into his kidneys twice, with vicious force, and Holmes moaned involuntarily.

"More of that, eh?" Moran panted with excitement. "Perhaps you like it that way. James always suspected you do enjoy a thing like that." Two more kicks and Sherlock was face down on the floor, fighting for air.

"Perhaps you had help, someone else I could talk to" Moran tried another tack. "Did Musil help you, Sherlock? Shall I ask the old man for his support?"

"He doesn't know anything, but if you want to involve half of Berlin, go ahead" Holmes gasped, the pain still racing through his body. By now the wire cut deep enough into his throat and neck to let blood trickle. "Would be nice to watch you wasting your time."

"Is that so?" Moran mused. "I should think of something else, then. Something that combines business and pleasure."

There was no way for Sherlock to hinder the other man when he bound him to the house bar by the wire. Holmes could hardly breathe.

"Any time you're ready, Mr Holmes. You do not mind me enjoying myself while you think about it, do you." With that, Moran turned towards Vanessa. She screamed and kicked when he pulled her open coat away from her, but she might as well have kicked a solid wall with her feet in thin stockings. Her pumps had come off before.

Moran tore her shirt and skirt to pieces, ignoring her struggling and yelling insults at him. He used the cords from the curtains to tie her hands to the couch. Peculiarly he did not pull off Vanessa's short, black gloves, and Sherlock, absurdly, marvelled at the sexual fantasies some people seemed to have.

The criminal scrutinized Vanessa's naked body while he undid his pants. "Pretty filly, isn't she, Sherlock. I told your friend John so, last night. I wonder if she's still pretty when I'm finished with her."

Vanessa was sobbing hysterically when Moran turned her, so that she had her back to him. When the man grabbed her hips and straddled her, her sobs faded away into a distraught groaning that was horrible to hear.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. He had bought all the time he _could_ buy without her getting hurt. If this kind of screaming, begging and struggling hadn't brought Carruthers to the rescue, nothing would. He opened his mouth to stop Moran, when Vanessa suddenly shouted "it must be in the neighbour's flat, it must be in the neighbour's flat!" She repeated it over and over again, like an enchantment that would somehow protect her.

Moran pulled her head back by her chin, which sent her into desperate whining again. "What the hell do you mean?"

"John told me that 'Alfred' took care of Musil's old neighbour" she panted. "The old scarecrow always stared at John peculiarly. And whenever John saw the old neighbour staring at him, Alfred wasn't around. Holmes had a second alias! The neighbour was a second alias, don't you understand?" Helpless crying drowned the rest.

Moran turned to Holmes sharply. "Is that true?"

"Yes" Sherlock sneered. "Seems the girl is blessed with a brain after all. Unlike you."

Moriarty's former associate left the girl, came back to the bar and Holmes bent his neck back as far as he could to ease the painful strain as Moran once more grabbed the wire and pulled hard. "Now, for the very last time, Sherlock: If I go to the neighbour's flat, to _your_ flat, where would I have to look, and for what? Don't make me ask the girl again, she wouldn't like it."

"Most of all because she can't know that" Holmes pressed out. Oh God, would someone in London, would Mycroft finally notice that something was _wrong_! Shouldn't Carruthers have called Tarantula by now about the arrests? Wouldn't Mycroft want to talk to his brother at once?

"This is a waste of time" Moran said, breathing heavily. He was flushed with joyful anticipation. Sherlock almost strangled himself in a vain attempt to turn his face away from the naked hips in front of him. Moran was roused. Obviously the man was having the time of his life.

The criminal walked back to his trousers, and took a sharp jack-knife from his pocket, 'to speed up matters', as he said. "A crying shame for such a pretty face" he added, as he turned back to the woman. "Perhaps I should have her before I cut her face to stripes, what do you think?"

Sherlock began to struggle, regardless of the wire and his bound arms, but a few hard punches into his stomach as well as the choke strangling him took care of that. He screamed as loud as he could with his throat squeezed, until he remembered. Soundproof.

"Wait" he pressed out. "I show you the spot where I hid the data. I promise."

"Where is it?" Moran asked "No chance I drive you through half the city to get it."

"A mobile hard-disk, behind a wall panel, in the bathroom" Sherlock said laboriously. "It's a hidden safe, the former occupant was a paranoid. You can't open it, it's booby trapped."

"I don't believe you."

"By all means, give it a try. See the hard disk go to oblivion."

"Give me the combination, or I'll..."

"You what?" Sherlock snapped as arrogantly as he could. "Leave us here until you gave the combination a try, only to see the disk destroyed? You could come back, naturally, but by the time I'd freed myself, no matter how you tie us up."

"Big words, Mr Holmes. But then of course I could always shoot a few holes into you. On the other hand, perhaps you would like a session on the couch with me, eh? After I've finished pleasing the Lady. I'm not particular to gender."

"Whatever you do, you can't be sure I gave you the correct combination unless I'm with you when you try it."

Moran, his eyes narrowed to slits, pondered that for a moment that felt like an eternity. All Sherlock could hear was his own heart racing and Vanessa's quiet sobbing. She pulled at her bonds weakly. It was clear that she was totally exhausted.

"_And this is the man who wants to claim James Moriarty's inheritance_" Holmes thought scornfully. "_He won't last__ a month, the stupid sucker_."

"Well" Moran came to a decision after all "looks as if the three of us are entitled to a little outing."

The jack-knife cut through Vanessa's bonds and he forced the woman to her feet. "Get dressed."

While Moran slipped back into pants and shirt himself, Vanessa, still sobbing, wrapped herself tightly in her coat. She buttoned it up to her neck and pulled the belt very tight. By reflex, out of habit, she patted the coat's two large side pockets, although they were both securely zipped. Nothing could have fallen out. It was an oddly feminine gesture, and Sherlock would have wanted to emasculate Moran for torturing so fragile a girl.

The useless wish became even stronger as their captor backhanded her. "Move, damn you. Fetch me a coat for him from the wardrobe, now!"

She ran to comply and brought back a long, thick wool coat, the kind that would look fitting on Sherlock although John was so much shorter than his friend.

Sherlock suppressed a frustrated moan, damn the woman and her misplaced sense of fashion!

Moran undid the wire and forced Sherlock to get up. He wrapped Holmes' neck in a scarf before he draped the coat over his shoulders, which effectively hid the double restraints.

Sherlock felt the gun pressing into his ribs, while Vanessa just stood where she had handed their tormentor the coat, her face blank and empty. "The Lady will be the driver" Moran told Holmes. "Obviously I can't gag you, but one wrong move, one word, and you're going to have a few new holes in your skin. They would not kill you, but you wouldn't like the feeling, understood?"

"Yes" Sherlock confirmed. What more was there to say? Twenty minutes, thirty, if the roads were jammed, 15 minutes he might be able to temporize once they'd arrived in the flat. 45 minutes more for Mycroft to finally smell a rat.

The three of them reached Moran's rented car in the underground garage easily, without being seen.

The German version of CCTV was everywhere, yet as all they saw were two men and a Lady friend entering a private car, they weren't of much use.

Moran joined Holmes in the back while Vanessa took the driver's seat.

For once, Berlin's traffic was thin and the roads were free, much to the captive's dismay. Furtively, Holmes checked up on Moran. Oh, why bother? Again, he might knock the brute over with a well-aimed kick – and then, what? It wasn't very likely that Moran would lose consciousness and the nightmare that would follow a useless attack was something Sherlock didn't want to imagine.

In the mirror, Sherlock met Vanessa's unsteady gaze. Obviously she was thinking exactly the same when they stopped at a red traffic light on a busy crossroad.

Perhaps to calm herself, she used the time to pull off her gloves. First the right one, then the left. Last night, Sherlock remembered, she'd worn gloves, too. He wondered why. She had delicate hands and wrists of rare beauty. No jewellery but for an antique looking gold ring with a jade cameo on the fourth finger of her left hand. Kuan Jin, the Chinese Goddess of Mercy.

Holmes inhaled sharply.

Moran glared at him. "What's up?"

Staring out of the window, Sherlock gave the impression of being not interested in the other man's antics at all.

"I said, what's _up_?" Moran insisted.

"I was just thinking what a beautiful sight it would be to see your head smashed by the van behind us" Holmes snapped.

As a result, Moran's fist landed repeatedly in Sherlock's already badly bruised stomach. Holmes bent over and groaned in pain.

Moran was satisfied and let the matter rest. Sherlock was shaking and covered in cold sweat. He didn't talk any more.

They reached the house and Holmes wanted to hide his face. He had no wish to drag anyone else into this mess. Then he berated himself silently for becoming forgetful. Nobody knew him here. The people in the shops and restaurants, the neighbours – they were used to see friendly, blond, good-humoured Alfred, not a dark haired Englishman with even teeth, bruised cheeks and a face as long as a fiddle.

With one exception of course. But a short look at Musil's window assured Holmes that the blind was down. An unmistakable sign that the old man, thankfully, was away at his studio, rehearsing.

They took the lift up to the top floor, and Moran fumbled the keys from the pocket of Sherlock's pants. Holmes had trouble to control himself. Being touched by the man's hand was hard to bear.

Once inside the flat, Moran had a quick look round, just as Sherlock himself.

The flat was empty.

Moran shook his head in disbelief. "You really didn't tell your brother about the data store, did you" he said. "What did you do, hide away in here whenever one of your brother's men came checking up on you? Was doing the good work alone _that _important to you?"

Holmes didn't answer. The brute was right, of course. And it had been hard to persuade Musil to play along with the ruse. The old man felt dreadful about deceiving the elder Holmes, whom he held in the highest regard.

"That's the bathroom?" Moran asked, pointing at a door in the opposite wall.

Holmes nodded.

"Go on, move!" Moran snarled, pushing his prisoners forwards. Vanessa stumbled in the lead, all on her own, while Moran held Sherlock firmly by the hair.

Once inside, Holmes volunteered all further information without resistance. "The third tile from the left, above the tank. Turn it clockwise."

Moran did as he had been told and the tile came off, revealing a hole in the wall, covered by a small safe door with a simple looking combination lock. When asked, Sherlock gave him the combination.

Moran keyed in the figures and wanted to open the door, when he suddenly hesitated. "You said booby-trap."

"A capsule with acid, linked to the door. Turn the locking mechanism twice anti-clockwise and once clockwise to disarm it."

Again, Moran did as Holmes had said. The door opened, and the criminal could take out the unscathed acid capsule with his bare hands. He also took a mobile hard disk, a futuristic model, very small, and with an incredible storage capacity.

"Back to the living room" Moran ordered, and both captives had no choice but to comply. The laptop on the desk in the corner was their aim, and, once there, Moran ordered Vanessa to step back.

"You can access your computer much quicker and safer than I could" he told Sherlock whilst taking off the belt and handcuffs "but if you try anything... must I go on?"

Vanessa, meanwhile, retreated a few steps and fell heavily on a chair, apparently unable to stay on her feet. Moran didn't budge, he had forgotten about her for the moment.

Sherlock shook his head for a 'no'. There was no need for Moran to elaborate on his threat. Holmes sat down to boot his laptop. He connected the mobile hard disk and quickly the data began to show on the screen, names, accounts, everything.

"Let me check it" Moran demanded, and Sherlock had to give way. He knelt down when ordered, Moran's gun pointed at his head.

"Seems genuine" the kidnapper said after a minute. "And obviously complete."

In this very moment, Sherlock was absolutely sure that he was dead. From his position he stood no chance to evade the bullet that would kill him. With the senseless bravery only despair can give, he tried to grab the hand with the gun anyway.

Unbelievably, it worked. Moran had been so sure of himself that he didn't react quickly enough. Albeit Sherlock couldn't push the gun away much, it sufficed. The muzzle lost its aim. However, Holmes' triumph was short lived. The next second Moran's fist landed on the back of his skull, and Sherlock's forehead banged against the edge of the desk. Holmes saw stars, while the room twisted and turned sickeningly round and round.

"I knew you'd make this more fun" Moran said hilariously, now holding Sherlock in a strangling hold. "A crying shame I can't spent more time with you, but the pretty Lady's waiting. Good bye, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock, on his knees, put up no further struggle. He was too groggy to. He felt the 357 Magnum pressing against his head once more. Moran chuckled, enjoying himself, looking forward to getting back to the girl after the kill.

The grin was still there when Vanessa pressed the small pistol she'd taken from her coat against the back of Moran's head and blew his brain out. The body missed Sherlock by a millimetre when he fell down.

For a second, nobody moved. Holmes needed a moment to comprehend that he wouldn't die today after all. Heaven knew, she had taken her time.

Well, what did it matter now. Thinking that one shouldn't look a gift horse into the mouth, Sherlock grinned like a Cheshire cat. Ridiculously happy and relieved, he jumped to his feet. "You sure took your time" he began, wanting to add "_I had hoped you'd intervene earlier_", when she raised her weapon threateningly to silence him. "Quiet! Stay where you are" Vanessa ordered sharply.

She fumbled a small glass phial from her pocket and tossed it at him. "Take it" she ordered. "I advise you to gulp it down in one go, the taste isn't too pleasant."

Sherlock caught the small bottle reflexively, but didn't open it. He narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Listen, Vanessa, whatever you want to achieve by this game..."

"Shut up" she hissed angrily.

"This is ridiculous" Holmes retorted, moving towards her. "I know you want the hard disk, but why would you …." However, he stopped in mid-stride.

The man who always saw everything before anyone else was for once in his life virtually frozen in surprise when a bullet from her gun hit the ground immediately at his feet. Splinters from the wooden floor marred Moran's dead face, adding to the gruesome sight of the smashed head.

As Holmes just stared at her in open disbelief, Vanessa's free hand loosened something at the back of her neck and she pulled her chestnut mane off, just like that. Free of the ingenious wig, a cascade of jet black hair flowed down her back. "I would take out my coloured lenses" she said coldly "if I had my hands free. You must take my word for it that my eyes are of the colour of dark amber. Now, Mr Sherlock Holmes - who am I?"

He looked at her, the jet-black hair, the white skin, the lean, delicate figure and limbs in the equally black coat – and with an ice-cold feeling in his guts, Sherlock finally recognized her.

Good God, the effortlessness with which she had tricked him into believing that she was on his side. The ease of the pretence that she was nothing but a stupid, helpless little girl!

It was the most degrading experience in Sherlock's life, definitely worse than anything James had done to him. That Moran had fallen for the act too did nothing to mitigate the burning shame he felt.

It was unimaginable how utterly, completely Sherlock Holmes had made a fool of himself.

"I'm sorry" he finally managed to press out. "My only apology is your brother's assurance that you had been killed. Nevertheless, naturally I should have recognized you earlier. Good day, Professor Moriarty."

**A/N: As always, I'm contrite to distraction about the long delay. I hope you liked the chapter anyway :-). If you did - give me some reviews. **

**And from now on, there will be another chapter coming up every sunday, up to the last one. Now, what is James Moriarty's sister going to do? Any suggestions?  
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	32. Kuan Yin

**32 **** Kuan Yin**

"Correct, Mr Holmes" she said with a tight smile. "Vanessa Elisabeth Moriarty, at your service."

"James Moriarty's twin" Sherlock completed her sentence. In spite of his humiliation, or perhaps because of it, he felt compelled against his will to give praise where praise was due. "And obviously the real genius of the Moriarty family."

"I never knew my late brother spoke highly of me."

"He didn't. I found out by other means. Just my bad luck that I thought you to be male."

"Bad luck had nothing to do with it" she retorted sarcastically "Your contempt for women is one of many similarities between you and my brother James. Had it not blinded you, you could've deduced my gender, easily."

As usual when compared with the Consulting Criminal, Holmes was touched to the quick. "Of course I should have guessed" he admitted, once more with unusual frankness. "If James had accepted that his sole equal in this world was female, he'd had no need to keep me prisoner."

"You're getting it a bit late" Vanessa said drily "but I'm glad to see your reputation is not totally undeserved. By the way, no need to pale as if you're going to faint. Albeit you're assuming correctly. After all, John _did_ phone me before he called that cab."

"John never made it to his plane" Sherlock stated.

"No, the good doctor did not. And, to make matters worse, Mr Carruthers won't help. It's not in his best financial interest. He's presently busy with keeping your former flatmate company."

Sherlock filed that away uncommented. To think of Carruthers as James Moriarty's mole inside Tarantula's department was – interesting. Especially as Mycroft had ordered somebody else's arrest for the crime. Either big brother had something up his sleeve or it was the blunder of a lifetime. Would be worth a try to find out what Mr British Government was up to.

But later. Much later. If there was to be a 'later'.

At present Sherlock was much too harassed by the collateral damages of his own schemes to make Mycroft's plans a priority. Actually, Sherlock was silently roasting himself. Why hadn't he paid attention to her earlier?

It had all been there, in plain sight.

The new woman in John's life, fallen from the sky in the perfect moment, a bundle of contradictions. She was the complete antithesis to Watson's type and yet she had somehow managed to be whatever John wanted her to be. John might not be brilliant, but he wasn't stupid either. He was a good judge of character and his life had taught him how to protect himself from emotional harm. He wouldn't stumble into a relationship, blindly and head over heels. And yet she'd taken him by assault, up to his flat, his bed and finally his heart.

In spite of all these tale-telling signs, the great Sherlock Holmes, the cleverest of the clever, had briefly pondered that she didn't belong there, only to dismiss that hunch without a second thought.

And, the worst of it all, indeed just like James Moriarty, he had been such an idiot just because she was female.

Truth be told, if only to himself, Sherlock appreciated women. Physically, or as company for an enjoyable evening. Telling John the thing about being married to his work, well - never kiss and tell, wasn't it.

But... where men were comfortingly, reliably transparent, women were – not.

John had once accused him of having a subconscious prejudice against women. Sherlock had grinned, and said nothing. Yet it was true. Once, before Moriarty, when the mood suited him, Sherlock had preferred business relationships with professional women.

What women called his good looks, his – if he so chose – impeccable manners, his education, chivalry, sense of fun and – as one woman had once described it – enthusiastic physical energy had made him always welcome, yet never accountable. No questions asked; no responsibilities. He wanted it that way.

To be actually _friends _with a woman, the way he was with John? Never!

At the thought of John, Sherlock's stomach cramped. "It's not the first time you got Dr Watson captivated" he said, composed though inwardly trembling. "Mostly when you went to bed with him."

"It wasn't too bad" she retorted playfully. "I'll live."

"Will he?"

"It depends on you, of course. You do as I say and he won't be harmed, otherwise... bla, bla, bla, you know the rest by heart, I guess. James must have pestered you with the same sermon, more than once."

"I couldn't agree more" Sherlock confirmed, his throat dry and raw. So much for his resolve to never again be a helpless victim of blackmail, as he'd been in James' hold.

Vanessa wigwagged her gun once, as an invitation. "Take your medicine like a good boy and we say no more about it."

Sherlock's vivid imagination conjured the scene. He would take the poison, and he would be found dead with the bottle still in his one hand and the pistol that had killed Moran in the other, side by side with the corpse. Doubtlessly, now that he himself had booted his laptop, a well prepared good-bye note would be found on the screen, saying that, now that he had taken his revenge on Moriarty's organisation, he saw no longer a purpose to his existence.

Any first year student of psychology would tell Mycroft that the trauma from the time as James' prisoner had caught up with the younger brother and that he had taken his own life in a bout of clinical depression.

"_Nice_" Sherlock thought, admiring the precise, well-structured plan that would kill him. "_So very neat. Bri__ef, to the point, no loose ends – nice._"

Even so, he couldn't just give up and die. If only to have the last word, if only to show her that he had looked through her scheme, he had to say _something_. "What exactly will the stuff do to me?" and he wanted to go on "_if it does not kill painlessly, my brother will never believe in my suicide_."

But he could not complete his sentence; she interrupted him. The one, decisive split second too hasty. Her next words too elaborate. "It causes permanent amnesia, covering all memories of the last three to five years in a person's life. I regret to say that in 5 % of cases it also causes serious brain damage, but, I guess a bullet does more damage to a skull!"

Sherlock shook the little bottle. Slowly, softly, he began to chuckle. He laughed louder and louder, until a second bullet hit the floor before him and sobered him thoroughly.

"Drink it" she snapped. "Or you and John can share a coffin!"

Holmes looked thoughtfully at the phial in his hand. "I guess it would make me very sick for a while, but nothing more. What's the explanation I'm supposed to believe? That I'm too resilient to all kinds of drugs? Or should I think that you, as the nervous wreck you are, mixed up your bottles?"

"It _will_ take effect!" She raised her weapon threateningly. Her hand was steady, her face determined and for a moment Sherlock feared again he'd got it all wrong. And yet, if she was what she claimed to be, why was he still alive and arguing with her?

As James' prisoner, Sherlock had developed the talent to know when to end one of _James_ Moriarty's cat-and-mouse-games. He had the odd feeling now – it was the right moment to call her bluff. He staked everything, his own life and John's, on one card – that he had been right when he saw her pull off that glove back in the car.

Her jaws tensed, and he spoke quickly. "Your lover wouldn't thank you for my demise. Good old Li Gong, she hates to molest her boss with bad news."

Vanessa's eyes narrowed dangerously and Holmes thought he'd overdone it. If he had hurt her professional pride enough to make her forget her superior's orders….

She lowered her gun and locked it before she stuffed it into the coat's pocket. Her frown was an angry, frustrated question mark. "What was my mistake?"

Relief washed over Sherlock and took the tension away that had kept him upright. His gaze fell on the corpse at his feet, the blood slowly pooling on the floor, the skull broken up. And out of the blue, at full impact, the last hours caught up with him. Sherlock's legs were wobbly, his stomach wasn't too stable and the mere thought that this woman might see him weak was unendurable. "Mind a change of scenery?" he asked with forced politeness, pointing at the living room suite.

"After you, Mr Holmes" she answered in a crisp tone.

He walked straight to the living room sofa and sat down, doing his very best to appear as casual as you please.

Behind him, she took her time, going into his bedroom, rummaging first through his closet, then through something in his back, and he was grateful to her. Grateful for the additional time to just _calm down_.

She came back in a pair of his jeans and a shirt, both too long for her but otherwise a surprisingly good fit. Her coat, bulky pocket with the gun in it included, was in her hand.

When she offered him a stout brandy triple he thought of rejecting it, but only for a moment. He took the glass and gulped the content down in one rush. If he had been in his usual, aloof state of mind, he sure would have objected. However, being on the brink of death twice in 15 minutes was much to take in. Easier to swallow with a brandy.

Vanessa took a seat opposite him. "Now, tell me" she demanded again. "What was my mistake?"

"Before I tell you anything" Holmes declared firmly "let me get one thing straight: We talk as equals. No games, no lies. Period."

"Mr Holmes, you treat me as if I was a man. I'm flattered."

"I mean it, Vanessa."

"You've found out that I'm an agent in Professor Chang Tse-Dong's employ. You must know I can't reveal my plans and orders to you."

"We're wasting time. John Watson's time. You identified Carruthers as James' associate. You told him you were about to revive James' spider-web, and that he would be your second in command, once Moran and I were gone. _If_ Carruthers was to do your dirty work for you. Naturally you kept quiet about your real role as a Chinese agent..."

"Naturally" Vanessa acknowledged his story so far.

"...this way you could have John abducted without incriminating the Lucky Cat" Sherlock continued. "But Carruthers can smell the rat any moment now. If he does, he'll go to ground, _after_ he's killed John."

Her gaze never left his while she pondered that. Finally she nodded, just once. "All right, Sherlock. An exchange of intelligence, as long as it doesn't put my side into jeopardy. Now, for the last time: How did you find out?"

Holmes resisted the urge to shake his head in awe. God, she _was_ like her brother. Improving her performance, her perfection, nothing else mattered. Better then to stick with the truth. "There was no mistake" Sherlock therefore said. "Your act was flawless. I believed anything you said. But you should tell Professor Chang that the amnesia was a stupid idea. If you had told me the drug would kill me, quickly and painlessly – that would have done the trick."

With an angry yell, Vanessa kicked the small coffee table until it toppled over. "Two hours, for two damned hours I argued with Chang, but he was adamant" she shouted. "He said he owes you too much. You can't imagine the qualms he had, and usually….." she stopped herself, biting her lip. Obviously she had no wish to compromise her superior further.

"Like Mycroft, the Lucky Cat usually doesn't have qualms of conscience" Sherlock spoke mildly although he felt anything but. They seemed to stray from the issue of John's fate even further.

"Both Chang and Mycroft go out of their way for you, though" Vanessa murmured. "Li Gong doesn't understand it. By the way, how did you know…."

"That you and Cherry Blossom are lovers?" Urged by his impatience, Sherlock second-guessed her question. "Your ring is one of a pair. Li Gong forgot to take hers off one day, before she came to check up on me. As she normally didn't wear jewellery, the piece caught my eye. From there, the rest was easy to deduce."

"Li and I are just friends" Vanessa objected heatedly, and for a moment Sherlock was taken aback by the – to him – stupid remark. Why would this brilliant woman deny the very obvious?

Why should anyone feel awkward about two females being in love with each other?

However, she held the cards here. Her mood counted. "Li noticed my gaze, fixed on the ring, she blushed, hid it with her other hand" he explained rapidly. "As she isn't exactly the blushing school girl from next door, the ring was a gift from a lover. From her behaviour, I had the impression that she's not very taken with men as a whole."

Vanessa's hand fluttered through the air briefly, a peculiarly helpless gesture. "She's got her reasons. And so have I. But that's none of your business!"

She visibly pulled herself together, the short moment of vulnerability was gone, and she scrutinized her counterpart with a cool gaze that gave nothing away. "So, you're a clever boy, Sherlock Holmes. What now?"

Sherlock shrugged with well feigned indifference. "The Lucky Cat lied to me when he told me the BND retrieved valuable data from James' HQ. The Germans conducted a thorough search but once they found the destroyed computer room in the Grunewald villa, they stopped searching. Therefore the Lucky Cat needs my hard disk."

"Correct" Vanessa confirmed curtly. "Go on."

"Chang Tse-Dong needs it because he presumes – correctly, as I may add - that James tried to infiltrate the Black Lotos after he'd killed their leader" Sherlock ventured further. "The acquaintances James made in Macao, the people he contacted in Taiwan and China, the Black Lotos' accounts outside the People's Republic – it's all there."

Vanessa cocked a brow. "So much for the Lucky Cat's assumption that you first heard of James' connections with the Black Lotos through him. You fooled my boss, you really did."

"And yet he sent you after me!"

"After a while, he did" she confirmed. "When you caught one after another of James' associates, just like that, Professor Chang was sure you had some hidden source. As John would find you sooner or later, I was to use him to force you into giving up your data to me."

"And, as you are James Moriarty's sister, your mere appearance would scare me witless. I'd do anything you say, as long as you had John."

"It worked, admit it" she said. "I had you there when I took off the wig, I saw it in your face."

"Professor Chang could have asked me for the disk" Sherlock said accusingly. "It would have saved us all a world of trouble."

"Ask you?" Vanessa retorted derisively "Ask you for material you were obviously willing to protect with your life, material you didn't want to reveal, not even to Mycroft?"

"You went as far to get it" Sherlock shot back in a harsh voice "as I went to hide it."

Vanessa cocked a derisive brow at the reminder of what Moran had done, although she paled. "I could have killed him any time, from the time I saw him at Musil's after show party to the second he grabbed me" she said, a bit defiantly. "I knew I would find him with you, trying to coerce you into giving up the data, when I entered John's flat."

"Of course you did. Nice logic by the way, to deduce that the old neighbour was also me. If only you'd known where to look for the disk in this flat, you could have left me there, with Moran."

Vanessa grinned tightly. "As I said, Lucky Cat has a crush on you. Keeping you in one piece was part of my job. And a full time job that was. You must cause your poor brother frequent nightmares."

"He doesn't sleep much anyway" Sherlock replied reflexively. "But we are straying from the point. What about John?"

"What about him? He's warm-hearted, kind, generous and he believes most people are like him, poor fool. He deserves a better friend than you are, but he's chosen you, poor fool again. You'll make his life a miserable hell, no doubt, and yet you'll snap your fingers and he'll come running. As I said….."

"He's a fool, yes, you already said that. However, I would like to have my fool back. You've got what you wanted, the disk is yours, I have no further use for it. When will you deliver?"

"Carruthers must get out of England without being caught by your vengeful brother."

"Agreed" Sherlock nodded. "Small wonder the Lucky Cat wants to lay a hand on a MI 6 agent of Carruthers' standing."

Vanessa gave him a crooked smile. "The man's a traitor, Mr Holmes."

"As are most of the men Mycroft employs" Sherlock answered. "One man's informant is another man's traitor. Rules of the game."

"Your brother wouldn't agree."

"Leave Mycroft to me. I'll distract him, and the BND agents in league with him, long enough for you and Carruthers to disappear, if you give me your travel dates. As soon, that is, as I know for certain that John is safe!"

Again, Vanessa paused for reflection. Finally, she shook her head. "No way, Sherlock. Mycroft is bound to catch on any moment now, he'll be breathing down my neck soon enough. There's nothing better to keep him in check than having you close. You and John stay with Carruthers, unarmed and in handcuffs. You can go as soon as I've ensured our escape."

Sherlock drew a deep breath when he rose and stepped to the window. It didn't sound like it, but it was a generous, indeed a more than generous, offer. She already had the disk, and she owed him nothing. The brittle, unreliable affection of a high-ranking Chinese agent wasn't much of a basis for outrageous demands.

"Good plan" Holmes said hesitatingly. "Even so, I would suggest an alternative.

"Your solemn word that you stay put voluntarily? This isn't the 19th century, I do not believe in a gentleman's parole!"

Sherlock's finger traced the rim of the window sill. "Vanessa O'Donahue means the world to John Watson. I do not want him to know who you really are."

She kept silent at first. It took a while before Sherlock more felt than heard her standing behind him. "What do you suggest?" she said softly.

"I'll empty your little bottle after all. I'll be found at Moran's side, obviously poisoned, with the farewell note on my laptop. I'll tell them I sent Carruthers on a wild goose chase, because I wanted to be alone with Moran. You and Carruthers will have all the time in the world to leave the country. The Lucky Cat wouldn't have left Li's lover without a fast emergency exit."

She grabbed him by the chin to make him look at her. "What's in that for you?"

"Unlike you, I'm a hopeless romantic" Sherlock answered drily. "If you'd promise me that Carruthers'll leave John somewhere, without revealing your role in this, I would believe you."

"And after that?"

"Vanessa O'Donahue might write a letter to John Watson, telling him that Lady Macbeth will not dazzle the German audience after all. You met a producer, he promised you a career in Hollywood. You're very sorry, but you're sure it wouldn't have worked for you and an army surgeon any road. It was good while it lasted, dear John, take care and bye-bye."

Her warm breath caressed Sherlock's cheek when she asked "and that wouldn't hurt your friend's feelings?"

"It would, terribly. But the knowledge that you used him to get through to me would hurt him much more."

She scrutinized his tensed face. "You're an enigma, do you know that, Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

"I've been called by names much worse than that."

She turned abruptly, walked away, brought back his glass, and another for herself.

She drank the rest of the Brandy while Sherlock almost choked on the vile tasting liquid from the small phial. He flushed it down with a gulp of water.

"Here's to you, Mr Enigma" she saluted him. "I promise I'll do my very best to make Vanessa O'Donahue's disappearance as innocent and believable as possible."

When she left him, after she had completed the necessary preparations, Sherlock was barely conscious.

The stuff might be harmless but it sure _felt_ lethal.

When the door fell shut behind her, he didn't even hear it.


	33. What's left behind

**33.**** What's left behind**

John braced himself for the worst as he saw the expression on Carruther's face. The agent had just terminated the call. Carruther's nervous fidgeting with the weapon, the deep frown – no good omen for a hostage with cuffed hands and a dizzy head.

"There has been a change of plans" Carruthers announced irritably. "Time's up, doctor. Glad to see you're still asleep."

Briefly Watson wondered why the man should speak to a victim he considered unconscious.

John also pondered whether it was a good or a bad thing to be out as a light when one died. He decided it was good. Feeling oneself being shot was a much overrated experience.

How very unfortunate that a very much awake John Hamish Watson would have a deja vu in a minute or two.

On the other hand, why should a kidnapper take the trouble to sedate his hostage before shooting him?

Then again, why would one of Mycroft Holmes' most trusted agents shoot a British army surgeon at all?

Nothing of this made any sense, and nothing was clear except the fact that Carruthers was preparing for the kill.

Time was indeed up.

Carruthers realized the change of situation too late when he approached his victim, the pistol in his hand, but not yet at the ready.

John tensed all muscles. It had been years since he'd had complete trust in his agility, but against all odds, and contrary to his own firm expectations, it worked.

Fear of death had always been a first class incentive.

Watson jumped to his feet in no time, swung upwards and his two fists crashed against Carruther's chin with all the force he could muster.

The other stumbled back, yelling something unintelligible, and Watson dived sideways, out of the weapon's immediate reach.

He needn't have bothered; Carruther's first shot went into the concrete ceiling and a second never came, as the agent somehow lost hold of his weapon when he scrambled to his feet.

He came for John, and Watson waited for the right moment to kick against the other's ankles. Again, the attack worked a treat and sent Carruthers flying. With a sickening thud the agent hit the ground and lay still.

John panted heavily. He was still dazed, hardly believing his luck. This couldn't be. Carruthers was a trained agent, this just wasn't possible. Far too easy.

And yet, the man didn't stir.

John bobbed up and made one step towards his kidnapper before he paused. What the hell was he doing? If the man was dead, good riddance - if he was still alive, John might not be a match for him twice.

For once Dr Watson fought his medical conscience successfully and made the hell out of the abandoned factory hall. Outside the former production site was a perfect backdrop for a Madmax movie. Shambles and ruin, with building machinery and other material all over it. A huge sign announced that the old factory was to be made into a leisure centre for arts and culture.

John, who had seen nothing of it before as he'd been out as a light on their arrival, lost the last qualms of his conscience. What a perfect place to get rid of a body.

Led more by instinct than by conscious thought, Watson found the taxi that had brought him here. He knew that the driver had left hours ago. Shortly before John'd lost consciousness, Carruthers had ordered the man to get lost as soon as they arrived at their destination.

Once inside the car John took a moment to fight the handcuffs. Damn, he should have searched Carruthers for the keys after all. However, nothing could make him go back into that hall. For the time being, the handcuffs were less terrifying than that.

Even as he fumbled desperately to start the car, John struggled with the weirdness of this kidnapping. It was all so makeshift, so improvised.

One thing was certain: This hadn't been Mycroft's idea. It wasn't Holmes' style, as it had no style at all. Even Sherlock readily admitted that everything Mycroft did had a certain, sophisticated elegance to it. A trademark of a clever, well-educated mind. It was a question of Mycroft's professional pride that he never was sloppy, primitive and least of all predictable.

This kidnapping, however, struck Watson as a bad version of a Raymond Chandler novel.

As the car was old, John hot-wired it in no time at all. The signboards quickly told him that he was somewhere in the eastern outskirts of Berlin. It would be no problem to reach the inner city.

Only now the shock of what had happened really set in. John breathed in short, ragged gasps and his hands at the wheel were cold and sweaty. He eyed the taxi's radio set, it was switched off, but looked operational. The emergency number was displayed clearly. One call and the police would be with him in no time.

Twice John reached for the radio switch; both times he couldn't bring himself to do it. Mycroft, Demirkan, the whole, bloody business of plans and counter plans – would the German police be a saviour or a nuisance or even a helpmate in some twisted, idiotic anti-John-Watson game of spy-and-spy?

Who was to be trusted, who wasn't?

John left the highway, left the big roads all together, turned into a narrow dirt road into a small piece of woodland, and stopped the car, motor out of gear.

He let his head fall on the wheel. He was nauseous and his head was spinning.

All of a sudden he burst out of the car, gagged and then he vomited, unable to stop until his stomach was completely empty.

The bout left him trembling, barely able to stand.

It took a while before he felt compelled to roll up his sleeve.

And right there it was; the mark of an injection needle. Some fancy drug, doubtlessly to take the fight out of him.

He did not know what drug, he did not know for how many hours he had been out, with no track of time or of what was happening around him.

John hasted to the car boot, opened it and sighed with relief when he spotted the bag, his bag, albeit _why_ the stupid thing should be such a relief was a mystery.

He just knew it had to be there and it was; perhaps the confirmation that he wasn't insane was relief in itself.

So he had indeed been on his way to the airport, on his way to London, to look for Mycroft who, by Sherlock's words, had gone missing.

The pieces of the puzzle clicked in place inside his head and some seconds later, he was on his way again.

The chain of thoughts was not very comforting.

Mycroft was missing, Carruthers had been Mycroft's man and John had left Sherlock alone in his flat. Sherlock had been standing on the roof terrace when John had taken that darn taxi, waving good-bye, clearly visible from the street, without his disguise. Everybody connected to the kidnapping of John Watson could have seen him, could have known that Sherlock Holmes was alone in this flat.

Christ, no. No. no, no, no, no, NO!

On his arrival at the apartment house, Watson did not bother with the elevator; he took two steps at once as he raced up the stairs, fumbled out his keys, and opened the door.

It took him one look at his living room to know that he came too late.

One did not need to be a Holmes to deduct a nasty story from the torn clothes, the bloodied wire, the cut cords and the general mess of the room. Belatedly it occurred to Watson that he knew these clothes. A woman's clothes. Vanessa's clothes.

Watson ran into his bedroom, found the open closet, the empty clamp where the black wool coat should have been, the one that had always been too big for him.

So whoever had come and overpowered Sherlock had also attacked Vanessa – John wiped his face with both hands – and taken them both to some other place.

Virtually paralysed, Watson gazed at the ocean of brick, concrete and mortar that stretched up to the horizon outside the window.

892 km², 3.5 million citizens, roughly 1 million tourists and not even the slightest idea where to look for two people who'd gone missing.

John's legs forced him to sit down where he stood, right on the floor.

Again, he thought of calling the police.

He tried to imagine what he would tell them.

"_You know, my friend is a Consulting Detective, his brother is a British Secret Service bigwig who's gone missing, but actually it's not him I want you to look for…_.. " yeah, pretty convincing story that would make.

Or, even better. "_And oh, by the way, if you want to know more, phone OTL Demirkan from the BND. Do not bother with their stories that there is no Demirkan, and that they do not know who I am, it's just spy business, yo__u know…._ ".

Subsequently, he could tell them _"call the British embassy, of course they'll deny any knowledge either, but ask them for a Chinese agent named Lucky Cat who's been in London a while ago and then you can lean back and watch the biggest diplomat__ic scandal of a decade enfold."_

He could finally crown his ravings by saying _"_.._anyway, my friend posed here as German citizen named Alfred Musil and in between two musical evenings, he hunted for heaven may know which criminals in your pretty city and now__ he and my girl-friend have been abducted by I know not whom_…"

John wondered how it would all sound in his miserable German vocabulary and grammar.

If this pitiably insane stammering wouldn't bring a man into a straight-jacket, nothing would.

However, the thought of Musil finally cleared the haze in Watson's brain. Why hadn't he thought of the possibility that Sherlock might have managed to escape? And even if he hadn't escaped, there might be some evidence at 'Alfred's' place that hinted at his present whereabouts.

John was out, down the stairs and inside the garage in no time. He was about to enter the taxi when a hand grabbed his shoulder from behind.

Without thinking Watson darted around and attacked the other man who, after an inconveniently short moment of surprise, fought back determinedly.

This time, John's luck ran out.

And yet he only ceased struggling when the stranger had him pinned to the ground with one arm twisted behind his back and his neck in a stranglehold. "Fuck. Doctor, will you just _listen_ to me, before I have to break your arm!"

"Who are you?"

"My name is Peter Meier-Gordon. You do not know me, but I know you. I'm working with Oberstleutnant Demirkan. I've been looking for you all over the place."

"Why?"

"It's Sherlock, Sir. Apparently, there has been some kind of …. an accident."

The moment Peter let go of him, John was on his feet.

It did not bother him that this whole lunatic business was becoming and weirder with every passing moment. He was beyond being bothered. This was one of Jasper Fforde's novels, he was Detective Thursday Next and any moment now a white rabbit would turn the corner in a Westwood suit.

In this ocean of absurdity, John had one last tiny island of reality to focus on and that was the message that Sherlock had had an accident. "What happened?" he snapped.

"Mr Demirkan thinks it best if as few people as possible are involved. You know, the BND has limited authority inside Germany…. Sherlock needs a doctor and perhaps you could…..

"WHAT. THE. HELL. HAPPENED ?!

Surely Peter would have promised him the stars and two moons from the sky to pacify him, but as it was, John settled for the promise to be filled in on their way to Musil's house. However, the young German agent spoke so verbosely, that John was still utterly in the dark when they arrived. Peter tried very hard to be tactful, and, as a result, nothing of what he said made any sense to the exhausted surgeon.

Therefore the expendable honour of telling Sherlock's best friend the news of the Detective's attempted suicide after fighting and defeating his last enemy fell to an aghast Demirkan.

His exhaustion forgotten, John checked Sherlock over as best he could; using the equipment of the 'trustworthy ' - whatever that was supposed to mean - paramedic the Oberstleutnant had called in.

"He's still breathing" the doctor said, relief washing over him, bringing back the tiredness in a violent rush. "And that's something. The breathing is shallow but stable. Same goes for the heart rate. It's not healthy for sure, but it won't kill him. You're sure he swallowed the whole lot?"

"It was empty when we found it" Demirkan retorted.

Again, John sniffed the small bottle that had been taken from Sherlock's limp hand. Some kind of opiate, that much was certain, and a strong one, judging by the smell. But obviously not strong enough, not for somebody who'd frequently indulged in drug abuse only a few years ago.

Odd, that Sherlock should have misjudged the dosage. Or that he had swallowed it instead of going for something that could be injected. Swallowing it always meant the risk of spitting it out too early. But then, the stuff was illegal. Perhaps the dealer had led him on.

Only then the knowledge hit John with full force.

Sherlock was safe and alive. It was visible that he had been beaten up, the handcuffs and the wire had left their marks. But he would live. Although he was wounded and bruised – he would live.

John gave the hideous corpse by the desk, only partly covered by a hastily pulled out sheet from the bed, a hateful stare.

Moran.

How could he have doubted it the moment he'd set eyes on the man. The name, the greedy smile, and the fact that Sherlock had blown his own cover after John Watson and Mr Moran had met just once – surely it should have been obvious enough, even for a man who wasn't a mastermind.

So, Sherlock had been right all these years ago, John Hamish Watson _was_ stupid.

Almost as stupid as a brilliant man who crowned his greatest success as a champion of the law, his complete revenge on the organisation that had made him a prisoner for almost five years, by taking his own life.

"Idiot" John muttered at Sherlock's sleeping face. "Bloody idiot!"

"The ambulance is ready" a nervous Demirkan told John. "The guys in the army hospital owe me a favour or two, they won't ask too many questions. But suicides must be reported under German law, there's no way around that. Best not let them know about this. May I tell my pals that you are Sherlock's private physician and that his extremely rich and influential family somewhere in Africa will have him out of their hair very soon? John?"

Watson shook his head. God, he was so tired. So tired he had trouble keeping his eyes open. The adrenaline dissipated and he could hardly think straight. He fought the urge to chuckle. Spies. Good heavens, boys and their silly, silly games. "_I know it's illegal, nanny, but i__f you won't tell mommy, I won't_." Ridiculous. Absolutely, utterly ridiculous.

"Africa doesn't work" he pressed out with an effort. "He's as white as paste." He looked at Sherlock's limp form being put on the stretcher.

"I didn't mean that as a convincing story" Demirkan snapped. "It's just what I always tell them when I want them to shut up."

"Go ahead, Oberstleutnant" John giggled. "Lie away, as much as you want. You know you're lying, they know you're lying and you know they know. But who am I to argue with the brilliance of a Secret Service strategy?"

"It's just because of the law" an embarrassed Demirkan whispered angrily.

"That always is a very annoying little detail, isn't it. Annoys Mycroft every time I shouldn't wonder." John was still laughing senselessly, he couldn't help it.

"Mycroft's definitely mad now. By the way, he wants to come here."

John's head snapped upwards, suddenly all alert. "You spoke to him?"

"Phoned him first thing after Peter had found Sherlock. What do you take me for? It's his little brother after all!"

"So he's not missing?"

"Who?"

Watson closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

In. Slowly.

Out. Slowly.

If that was how Sherlock felt whilst talking to ordinary people, John had a lot of excuses to make to his former flatmate. It was - unnerving! "Mycroft" he said. "Mycroft Holmes, Herr Oberstleutnant."

"Mycroft waited for you in Heathrow, you did not come; instead I had to tell him that his little brother has tried to kill himself. Not a very pleasant conversation, I assure you."

Suddenly John shivered from an inner cold.

Sherlock had lied to him! Again. It had all been a ruse to get John Watson out of Berlin, back to London, where a smirking Mycroft would have been only too happy to keep him under lock and key.

Of course, somewhat later the elder brother would have put two and two together. But by then Sherlock would have been dead.

Such a fine plan, and it made sure that Mycroft would feel miserable and guilty for the rest of his life, because he had not seen through it until it was too late. The scheme could well have been James Moriarty's and the thought that it had been Sherlock's made John nauseous again.

"_Bastard_" he thought. "_How come a man like you, with all your gifts and talents, can be so petty and senselessly cruel? Whatever he's done, he's sti__ll your brother._"

"We're looking for your young Lady, doctor" Demirkan now said, as he watched some of his men taking care of Moran's body while others began to clean up the mess. Doubtlessly all traces of recent events would be gone by nightfall. "She's vanished into thin air. The shock, no doubt. Cameras had her leaving your flat and coming here with Moran and Sherlock, but that's it for now."

As John was dead silent, Demirkan added: "Don't worry, we'll find her. She's a stunner, what with her chestnut mane and all."

John was frozen to the spot. It wasn't a figure of speech. It actually felt as if his body had frozen solid.

He had forgotten about her.

Totally forgotten to ask, to even think about her.

He had found her clothes, torn, bloodied, he had known she'd been taken together with Sherlock, he had found Moran dead, and Sherlock only half alive, with no trace of her and he hadn't even thought of what might have happened to her.

Here he was, self-righteously accusing his friend of cruelty, egoism and inconsideration and all the time, _all the time_, he hadn't even thought of a woman with whom he'd thought himself to be in love.

"Excuse me" John muttered. "I must…. I have to… excuse me!"

Inside the bathroom, behind a locked door, John dialled her number with shaking fingers on his mobile. He thought fleetingly of how odd it was that Carruthers hadn't taken the thing away but who cared what the damned traitor had thought anyway?

No need to talk with Demirkan about Carruthers, though. Mycroft would know if Demirkan was to know about the abduction, and if Demirkan was not supposed to know about a British agent gone rogue – oh, hell, who cared for such lunatic stuff now either way?

With his eyes closed, John listened to the signal. "_Come on, Vanessa, come on, plea__se, take it. Take it, damn you._"

Finally, at the very last second, she took the call. John heard her weak voice. "Hello?"

She sounded so fragile, so vulnerable, and he would have wanted to hit himself. "Vanessa, darling, where are you? Are you all right?"

"Is that you, John?"

"Yes, my love. Are you all right? Has Moran hurt you?"

"You know?" she said, still with that voice of a frightened little girl. "How can you know, you are in London."

"I'm not, I didn't make it. I know you and Sherlock have been attacked. I was beside myself with worry" Inwardly he blushed at his own words. He had been scared witless, yes, but not for her. "Where are you, Vanessa?"

"I'm with my friends." By now her self-control faltered and she sniffed. "From the theatre. It was all so ghastly. Like a nightmare. Sherlock was mean to me. John, I was so afraid and he chucked me out. I do not like him, no matter what he said about avoiding the police."

"Vanessa, sweetheart, tell me what has happened…."

"I have been kidnapped" she suddenly screamed hysterically, until his ear rang. "That man, Moran, he wanted to _rape_ me. Can you imagine? One moment I come home because I had forgotten something and the next moment I'm tied to the couch, naked. He pulled a knife, he said he'd cut my face to stripes. Oh God, God…" She cried hysterically and the rest of her words drowned in it.

"Please, darling, I'm so sorry" John repeated over and over again. "I love you. I love you so very much." The words felt like ashes in his mouth and he almost choked on them. He listened to her crying and thought that he'd never felt so ashamed before.

She spoke on and on between her loud sobs and after a while John realized that she was trying to tell him about Sherlock somehow freeing himself, fighting with Moran and finally killing him. It wasn't a very coherent story, but then, he only heard parts of it through her continuous sniffing and sobbing. And he most definitely did not want her to repeat anything of it.

In the end, she audibly pulled herself together. "Listen, John" she said, still shaking but perfectly clear "I've come to a decision. What we had – it was good. But… but….." obviously her resolve left her again.

"But what, darling" John tried to encourage her.

"We aren't made for each other. I mean…. this world you live in, all these secrets and lies and these gruesome friend of yours…..I'm an artist John, not a spy, and an artist can't live like that. I was so terrified, so very terrified…." Her voice faded away, for all her obvious fighting for calm and resolve.

"I know my love, I know, and I'm so sorry…"

"Please, do not believe that I didn't love you, John. I did and I do. But this… this…. I can't live like that. I'm made of glass, I'm transparent and honest and…Please I…. I feel horrible, like a silly little coward but …. This is it, John. I… I would prefer if we never met again. I can't… please forgive me."

John stretched out his free hand and grabbed the rim of the tube to steady himself. He was swaying on his seat, indeed the only available seat in this bathroom. "_Oh, thank heaven" _he thought_. "Thank you, thank you, Lord, for saving me. I do not have to see her into the eyes, I do not have to lie to her, I do not have to see her again, thank you, Lord, thanks from all my heart_."

Vanessa's voice, when she spoke again, was very sweet and a bit sad. "This is good-bye then John Hamish Watson from London, England. I know I only filled in the gap between two adventures with your friend Sherlock. Nevertheless, thank you for a wonderful interlude. Take care."

"Vanessa…." John shouted, but it was too late. She had already terminated the line and no matter how often he tried to get her again, it was in vain. Finally she took out the battery, as the provider informed him that the number he dialled was presently not available.

When Demirkan hammered against the door, telling him that the ambulance could wait for him not a second longer, John rose, stuffed the mobile into his pocket and left the flat as a new man.

On his way out he casually informed Demirkan that all was well with Vanessa O'Donahue and that the BND better left her in peace, as she was planning on a little vacation in her Irish home-town, to get over things.

The Oberstleutnant seemed relieved and secretly John was very sympathetic with that.

He knew he wouldn't tell anyone, not even Sherlock Holmes, about this shameful, humiliating episode. This was between him and his conscience for the rest of his life.

At the same time, Vanessa had wiped away the last of her tears, stuffed the parts of her own mobile away and taken up her bag.

"Let's go" she said coldly to the man who stood behind her. "We're late as it is."

"We wouldn't be if you'd let me kill the good doctor instead of forcing me to go through this charade of a kidnapping with subsequent gallant escape" Carruthers said as he followed her, rubbing his bruised chin where Watson had hit him.

"I had my reasons" she shot back. "And they're not your concern."

"Oh, I see, somebody pleaded Dr Watson's case with you. Was it Sherlock? No, too sentimental."

"Sherlock Holmes is dead!" she stated.

Carruthers winced, and his eyes widened in shock. "You're sure? I mean..."

"You mean _what_, Carruthers? That I should have been a good girl? That I'm not cut from the same wood as my late brother James?"

The Brit shook his head. "Mycroft will blame me for that. It'll spur him on. That's idiotic."

"Hush your mouth Carruthers, before I do it for you."

The British agent inhaled audibly, but then he pulled himself together. "Impressive performance, though, this little girl act of yours" he changed the subject, although it came out forced. "But what was it for? You could have left Watson guessing."

Vanessa snorted derisively. "So that he would come after me, making sure that I'm well or something like that? Do _you_ leave lose ends like that?"

"Every inch the tidy little housewife, eager to make a clean sweep after the party" Carruthers said acidly.

He yelped with pain and surprise when her foot landed between his legs, hard. He doubled over, gasping.

Vanessa talked casually, as if nothing had happened. "Just to get this straight, Mr Carruthers – I do have a certain, minor interest in you. You can't go back to England, because sooner or later Mycroft will find out that you betrayed him. You either shut up or you'll have to find your way out of this mess without me. Is that clear?"

Carruthers panted and it wasn't only from the pain. "You can't leave me; Mycroft would be on me in a matter of days, screaming for revenge. I'd not make it out of Europe alive."

"No you would not" she retorted. "So let's just say that _my_ sense of humour is the benchmark here, shall we?"

"Whatever you say, Vanessa."

He backed off when she slapped his face. "The name" she hissed "is Professor Moriarty."

Carruthers kept his mouth shut even after the take-off of the small, old private plane that would be only the first of several means of travel.

Vanessa guessed that some unknown colleagues would make sure that Miss O'Donahue was registered leaving Germany. Somebody else would play Lady Macbeth. The theatre and the production would be well paid for their discretion. The Lucky Cat's department and, what was more, Li Gong would see to all that. They always did.

Carruthers would have a cruel awakening when he set eyes on the Lucky Cat, but that was as it should be.

Secure in the knowledge that all was well with the world, Vanessa closed her eyes, smiled dreamily, and let her thoughts wander.

_Two weeks from now Cherry Blossom and I will be together again. A long vacation, that's what Lucky Cat pr__omised us. Will be marvellous, to go swimming, and sailing, Li and I. No troubles, no missions, no nothing, just Cherry Blossom and me._

She wondered, did Sherlock Holmes ever dream of such things?

John would never think of Sherlock, or any other man, in this way, of that Vanessa was sure. But was it the same on the other end of the line?

His face when he had begged her – actually _begged_ her, a man as proud as Satan - to spare John's feelings…. had Sherlock any idea how very appealing he was to women?

If it had not been for Li, she would have told him. If it had not been for Li, she would have showed him what "appealing" could mean.

_Are t__here women in your life, Sherlock Holmes? In your bed, sometimes, somewhere, for sure, but in your __**life**__?_

_Did you ever know what effect you had on my brother James, real __effect, I mean? You drove him mad, did you ever notice? Yes, you crumbled under torture__, you kowtowed to him in order to survive, but as soon as you recovered, you were yourself again._

_Like a steel spring. It exhausted James to keep you down and the second he let go, you sprang up, right into his face. Sebastian feared you; and he always bel__ieved that James feared you too. He said so, to Jenkins._

_Do you know that Jenkins was my source inside James' stronghold? Poor old Jenkins, he loved us both. Almost killed him, that feud between James and me. He warned me about James' plan to have me kille__d, kept silent about my survival._

_I should have told him about the Chinese. Poor old idiot, now he's dead._

_Cold, he said you are, Sherlock Holmes. Cold, controlled, inhuman, but he was wrong. Funny, too, that James could read you so well, and yet he comple__tely underrated you in one area._

_He called Mycroft 'The Iceman' and you 'The Virgin'._

_But you aren't a virgin, are you Sherlock. Whatever concept of love you have, unlike my brother you will find a way to make it work. That's what's going to keep you on th__e side of the angels in the end. You've bound your heart to someone who'd never cross the line, not even for you._

_I pity every woman who thinks she can be part of your or of John's life. There is no room for a third person in 221B Baker Street._

Professor Moriarty thought of what Sherlock might come up with when somebody should try to steal his friend away from him. Naturally the main problem would be to keep John in the dark while an inconvenient intruder was driven out of his life.

Poor John Watson.

Vanessa grinned, still with closed eyes; a lazy, cruel smirk, and in that moment, the resemblance to her brother was breathtaking.

Carruthers watched her. He compared this expression with the vulnerable, sobbing woman she'd been on the phone.

She was formidable, that much was certain. Easy for her to fool others, quite difficult for others to fool her.

She was a fine challenge for any man.

If a trifle terrifying.


	34. Continental Breakfast

**34. A Continental Breakfast**

Peter – aka Peter Meier-Gordon - wasn't too happy about his latest appointment, but then, beggars couldn't be choosy.

After the débâcle of Sherlock shipping him into a Berlin police holding cell, and with two identity cards in his pocket – one with his real name and one with the BND's alias for him, which had been brand new at the time – Peter was on trial with his bosses, even with Demirkan, for all the Oberstleutnant's usual friendliness.

The police had had a good laugh until their bellies hurt, and Peter had profited from it. Discharged in the morning, without too many questions asked.

However, the BND had not been amused at all.

So here Peter was, waiting for the British VIP of all VIPs, to give him a lift to the army hospital. And all of it at five minutes' notice.

Therefore the equipment he carried wasn't exactly dernier cri. Just a self-made cardboard sign that read '_Mycroft Holmes_'.

The Brit appeared, immaculate as ever. Suit, shirt, umbrella, the face – no crumbles, no stains, no worries or fatigue – the man always looked as if he was made of plastics.

"You're wrong with that sign, young man" Mycroft said instead of hello, or good-day or how-do-you-do or any other kind of civilized human remark. "The name is Bond. _James _Bond, naturally."

"Sir?" a confounded Peter stammered.

"As you've apparently been sent for the express purpose of letting the world know who it is you're going to pick up, you might as well use the most renowned acronym for the British Secret Service."

Peter's head began to swim. "I'm sure nobody knows you're here, Sir. And the people who do know you, well, they do know you, don't they?"

"I'd bow to your logic, Mr Meier-Gordon, if only the floor weren't that dirty. And you phrased it so well." Mycroft sure was in one of his 'no-prisoners-made' sort of moods, the kind Peter had been warned about.

So the hapless German tried to change the subject. "Talking about names, Sir – it's not Meier-Gordon any more. Eh, Sir."

"It is not?"

"No, Sir. I had to change it."

"You've not got married, I trust? Oh, forgive me, now I remember, my baby brother intervened. That night in the police station..." Mycroft had no need to say more, the presumptous amusement in his face spoke a thousand volumes.

His face flushed red, his neck feeling swollen and his heart beating faster, Peter nodded. "Yes, that's why" he pressed out.

"So what I am to call you now? By your real name, perhaps, Mr Foolsbottom-Gärtner?" Mycroft's voice was as slick and as silken as his expensive handmade tie.

Peter would have loved to hang the man by it, until he be dead. Silently, as he no longer trusted his voice, he handed the unbearable Brit his new card.

"Mr Peter Brown" Mycroft read out with a deliberately exaggerated frown. "How inventive. So very original."

Peter just walked on, briskly. Let the damned bastard see if he could follow.

Mycroft, with no apparent effort at all, kept up with his aggravated guide. "Nice to see the German capital did eventually finish the Willy Brandt airport" Holmes said conversationally. "And only six years delayed."

The poisoned arrow hit home, right through young Peter's defences, like a warm knife would cut through butter. "I have it on the best authority, Sir, that even Heathrow airport wasn't built in one day!"

"Oh, I _do_ apologize" Mycroft said, with clearly faked remorse "have I – quite unintentionally – hit a sore spot? I'm sorry, from your accent I know your German parent was born in Munich, so I thought the disaster of Berlin's new international airport was a secret source of glee to you."

"You can leave the German language as well as the German airports to the Germans" Peter spat. "_Sir_."

Mycroft's mood had visibly improved during the last ten minutes. He sounded almost amiable when he said "oh, good old German patriotism, makes me feel like on my Sunday outings during my childhood, when we fought the Huns in the channel."

Peter took his refuge with his duties. He found it was all he _could _do. Except causing a diplomatic incident of the gravest consequences. "This way please, Sir. I came by car."

"Indeed" Mycroft smiled. "I wouldn't have known." Tarantula's gaze was visibly fixed on the sign directly behind Peter's pointing hand: '_Parking_'.

Peter closed his eyes and bit his tongue until it hurt.

As Mycroft now took the lead, Peter used the opportunity to phone Demirkan. "I've got him, boss" he told his superior in German. "He's in a bad mood. And he let me have it all. I did not know he doesn't like Germans."

"You'll live, Peter" Demirkan answered in the same language, softly chuckling. "If it helps, think of what Mycroft and Sherlock will have to say to each other. And they're both English."

"There's a lot _I_ would like to tell Sherlock Holmes" Peter gnarled. "I'm on my way, boss."

Peter fumed when they drove off. Perhaps he'd chosen the wrong profession after all.

"By the way" Mycroft notified him from behind. "You're wrong. I _do_ like Germans, Germany and most of all I like the German language. It's just _you_ I loath. I trusted you with my brother's safety, and you let me down. I thought you might wish to know."

They spent the rest of the journey in silence. On their arrival, Peter virtually jumped behind his superior's back.

"Sherlock's fine" Demirkan told Mycroft when they shook hands. "Watson's been a marvel, with him and with our doctors. They drained Sherlock's stomach, pumped all kinds of stuff into his veins and he endured it all peacefully. They had him on his feet in no time."

Mycroft did not dwell on this health bulletin. "You already informed me about my brother's description of events" he said. The 'description' was conspicuously incomplete in some vital parts, but that was something Mycroft would discuss with Sherlock. "Still, Mr Demirkan" Tarantula went on "some details of _your_ operation are still a mystery to me. For example, why, as Sherlock recovered that rapidly, did you coerce me into postponing my visit for a whole week?"

Demirkan held Mycroft's gaze, trying his best to overlook the angry wrinkle between the brows. As if anyone in this world could coerce this ice-cold bastard into anything. "It was..." the German coughed once, "Dr Watson's idea."

"How so?"

"Sherlock... you know we presumed attempted suicide at first."

"In which case the presence of his brother was of course expendable." Mycroft's sarcasm was as sharp as a toledo blade.

Demirkan groaned inwardly. "Dr Watson had a hard time in making Sherlock talk, and when he finally did, we did not want to ... scare him off, so to speak. '_Mycroft does ha__ve that effect on him_' were the Doktor's exact words."

It was obvious that this did not amuse the elder Holmes, but he dropped the issue at once. "I take it John is still with my brother?"

"Yes, pretending to be his private physician."

"Now where's the pretence in that?" Mycroft asked as he walked towards the room which had been indicated to him as Sherlock's. "All other doctors are at physical and emotional jeopardy when they approach my brother."

Mycroft opened the door and the three of them stared at an empty room.

Tarantula cocked a brow. "Did you tell Sherlock that I'm on my way? Or have you just misplaced him?"

"There's a visitors' room, at the end of the corridor" the Oberstleutnant said calmly. "Peter, please tell Sherlock that his brother wants to see him. _Now_!"

As Peter dashed off, Demirkan smiled into Mycroft's sarcastic face. "As you're in a jesting mood, Mr Holmes, let me tell you some jokes, too. We never 'misplaced' your brother. I'm well aware that Peter is green. I _knew_ Sherlock would shake him off quickly. Your brother would be easier to handle if he imagined himself foot-lose and fancy free. And had it not been for my men discreetly covering up for _your_ blunders, Sherlock might well _be_ dead."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that we shadowed Watson since he first came to Musil's house. We even bugged his flat. Illegally. Heaven help me if that little detail ever sees the light of day."

"Such measures are _your _prerogative" Mycroft replied icily. "You repeatedly reminded me of the fact that Berlin isn't British territory."

The German's smile became even more charming. "The bug wasn't online a week ago, as you, dear Mycroft, had warned me that Moran's arrest was _your_ prerogative. How was I to know MI 6 wouldn't show up?"

Mycroft's shoulders sank. Just a bit, almost invisible, but it was enough.

"You did not know" Demirkan stated, disbelievingly. "You heard only from _me_ that at the time your man wasn't in place?"

"Sherlock was completely alone during his encounter with Moran" Mycroft retorted "No back-up. Do you think I planned it that way?"

Demirkan left that uncommented, but his face showed what he thought: That the high-ranking MI 6-bigwig had indeed deliberatly risked his own brother's life.

However, the Oberstleutnant kept his thoughts to himself. "No back-up whatsoever" he confirmed "until Peter, notified by a police commander who'd been waiting for a call that did not come, activated the bug to see how _your_ operation was coming along. Imagine his surprise when he found your brother on a surveillance camera, entering a car while Moran had his arm around his hip, in a very funny way. Peter phoned me, I gave my okay, and he started the search."

"You followed Sherlock on your CCTV, no doubt."

"Forgive me Mycroft for reminding you _again_ that this is neither London nor Moscow. _You_ may talk of _your_ capital as your private oyster, I can't do that. We were lucky that Musil phoned Peter. He told my young friend that Sherlock had arrived, in his own person, and had entered the neighbouring flat. I knew your brother wouldn't give his last hideout away, not voluntarily."

Mycroft, who only now gathered the whole truth behind Sherlock's ability to vanish into thin air whenever one of the British agents came too close, was secretly rattled.

Not only had Musil kept Sherlock's second alias from him, but also the fact that the old musician was working with the BND.

"Come on, Musil is a German citizen, _and_ very fond of your brother" Demirkan second guessed the Brit's thoughts. "Quite early in this case I told him how dangerous Sherlock's work really was. He promised me to stay in touch. He saw Sherlock arrive with two unfamiliar persons, pulled down his window blend so that they would leave him alone, and phoned Peter. Clever old man if you ask me."

"I cannot remember asking you anything, Oberstleutnant" Mycroft threw in.

Demirkan ignored the interruption. "Imagine Peter's surprise" he continued "when he was also informed, by one of our other sources, that Mr Carruthers had been seen unloading an unconscious, handcuffed British army surgeon from a taxi. Assuming that it happened by your order, Peter left it alone."

"Mr Carruthers' actions are no concern of yours" Mycroft said coldly. "He had ordered a colleague to take care of Sherlock."

"This colleague had a lethal car accident fifteen minutes after he'd left his apartment" Demirkan retorted. "No ID, no passport, no nothing. The car driver in a shock, no other witnesses. We found your man in a morgue, much later. But I'm carrying coals to Newcastle here, by now you must know that."

The '_by now'_ was meant as a carefully planned insult, and it hit home like one. Nonetheless, Mycroft listened on politely.

"As to Sherlock and Moran" Demirkan continued, a bit disappointed that he saw no effect in the other, "I called in reinforcements and told them to go in. The BND is not allowed to do such things, so I risked my job, but it was worth it. We found Sherlock alone and unconscious. As, shortly afterwards, we learned that Dr Watson had come back to his flat, we could call him in. Lucky us, saved me the trouble of explaining things to another doctor."

"You took your time, though" Mycroft said, a bit hoarsely. "must have been a while between Musil's call and you entering the flat. Long enough for my brother taking poison!"

"Peter hasn't got the rank to give such orders, and it took him a while to get me to a phone. I had taken a day off. _You_ had been adamant that this was _your_ operation, and I must say, I sympathize. I'd done the same had I been trying to plant a mole at the heart of Chinese Intelligence."

Mycroft stiffened, almost invisibly. Some tiny muscles in his throat and face tensed and the polite demeanour of a British gentleman was gone. "What a fantastic idea" he replied silkily. "For a third rate movie."

Demirkan lost his patience and his casual attitude with it. "Listen, Holmes, I know who you are and what you are, and you don't intimidate _me._ You've used me, you've used my department, you've risked your brother's life. James Moriarty had almost finished you; you had to make amends to your masters. And you did, by infiltrating Beijing's Secret Service."

"You do have a vivid imagination, Herr Oberstleutnant."

"Deny it all you want, you _ordered_ Carruthers to play along with Vanessa Moriarty, for a chance to get into Chang's headquarter. Now, I want _our_ pound of flesh. Whatever you get from your agent in Souzhou, the BND are _in_, is that clear? Or your mole won't last long."

Mycroft tried to stare the other down. Most people were unnerved by the cold steel-grey glare. This time it didn't work. Demirkan didn't waver.

"You wouldn't dare" Mycroft said calmly.

The German's retort was cold. "Would do wonders for German-Chinese relations."

"I take it you knew I would not find my brother in his room?" Mycroft shot back, pointing at the sickroom in his back.

"I wanted to have this conversation with you in private."

Mycroft looked down. For a whole minute he stared at his shoes. When he looked up, he had clearly come to a decision. "Well done, Herr Oberstleutnant. As I kept even my own staff in the dark about this one – I must say, I'm impressed. One day you must tell me how you come to know Vanessa Moriarty's true identity."

Demirkan grinned, slightly first, than broader and broader, until he began to laugh. Hardly able to speak, he burst out "dear God, it's true, it's really true, I don't believe it. He was right, with every word he said. And _I _said he was plain barmy."

Mycroft, who had so far been willing to accept the inevitable with good grace, straightened his back, perturbed. "_Who_ was right?"

"_I_ was right, brother dear" Sherlock said behind Mycroft's shoulder. "_I've_ spilled your precious beans to the Oberstleutnant."


	35. Old scores revisited

**35. Old scores - revisited  
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Mycroft closed his eyes for a split second. When he opened them again, he showed the arrogant-indulgent smile he kept in store especially for his younger brother. "Did I never tell you that eavesdropping is a bad habit, dear boy?"

"No! Besides you're doing it for a living. Oberstleutnant, excuse us please!"

"Take all the time you need, Sherlock!" Demirkan's step had a spring to it when he walked away with the inevitable Peter in his wake. He knew he'd won. Not by his threat against Carruthers. That was merely mustard for the meat. Mycroft _owed_ him, and they both knew it. The Oberstleutnant smiled fondly. Being obliged like that to another service, and to one he secretly despised - would drive the stiff-necked English rascal mad.

Almost as mad as the fact that his own little brother had given his plans away. But why on earth Sherlock had insisted that Mycroft should _know_ about that – it beat Demirkan completely. Well, luckily that wasn't any of the BND's business. "Wo ist Dr Watson?" he asked a yawning Peter, relieved to return to one of his two native tongues.

The younger agent also slipped back into the German language. "Having a late night snack in the lounge" he said wistfully. His stomach growled in sympathy.

Demirkan rolled his eyes. "How much does he know by now? Watson, I mean? Sherlock didn't want _me_ around when he spoke to his friend."

"It's a miracle, how Sherlock keeps all the different versions in mind, and what he's told whom" Peter said while walking. "He told John that he took the poison at Moran's order, that Moran thought him disabled, that Sherlock could therefore get to the weapon he'd hidden in his living room and shoot Moran. Oh, yes, and that Moran was behind John's kidnapping, as Carruthers has always been working as Moriarty's mole inside MI 6."

"What was the doctor's reaction?" Demirkan asked when they entered the lift.

Peter cocked a brow. "Relief, I'd say."

"Relief?"

"That it hadn't been a suicide attempt. After he'd heard that, he did not pay much attention to the rest."

"Makes sense to me" Demirkan said. "They are friends, after all. A bit like brothers."

"Imagine, being friends with Sherlock-the-freak" Peter growled under his breath, which earned him a forbidding look from his superior.

"Anyway" Peter hastily took up the thread of his story where he'd left it, "in return John told Sherlock that he and Vanessa had broken it up for good. A heartbreaking fiction about the fragile Lady striving for a future of being married to her art, in spite of John Hamish Watson's passionate declaration of undying love."

Demirkan, who had had Watson's mobile bugged long ago, smirked. He remembered the real telephone conversation between 'the fragile girl' who really was an agent hard as flint-stone, and the 'caring lover' who indeed cared only for his friend, not for his girl. "Did they believe each other? Watson and Sherlock?"

"No" Peter grinned. "But I'm sure John doesn't know about Miss Moriarty and that's the only thing important to Sherlock. As to the rest – they both grinned knowingly, and left it at that."

"I want you to leave it at that, too" Demirkan said sternly. "This is way – _way_ – beyond your head, Mr Foolsbottom-Gärtner. No taking revenge on Sherlock by spilling the beans to Watson."

Peter winced at his real family name, as always, but he shook his head. "Don't worry, Oberstleutnant. As you said – what the two Holmes brothers will have to say to each other tonight – it'll be worse than anything I could do."

Actually, Peter would have been disappointed in Mycroft. For once Tarantula wasn't quite up to the task. "_You_ persuaded Demirkan to postpone my coming here, not John" was the first thing he said to his brother once they were alone in Sherlock's alleged sick room. It wasn't a very effective opening; it sounded whining and hurt, even to Mycroft's own ears.

As expected, Sherlock made good and immediate use of the weak flank. "Of course I did. I needed time to prep our German friends for you. After I'd figured your plan out."

"Why, Sherlock? Why did you tell them?"

"You deserved some punishment, big brother. You lied to me about Vanessa, you permitted Carruthers to kidnap John, you left me to …. – there's no need to go on, is there?"

Mycroft gulped down a lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. He had thought of accusing his brother and now he found he was the accused; and defence seemed difficult. "I had someone in place to keep you safe from Moran" he said. "I did not know the man had had an accident until the Germans told me."

Sherlock spoke fast, he fired his words as if they were bullets. "You went to Heathrow airport, to make your own staff believe that you really thought John would be on that plane. But although you'd given me your word, you knew he wouldn't come. Am I right?"

"No" Mycroft retorted. "I wouldn't do this to you. You must believe me, Sherlock."

"Do you know how John must have felt?" Sherlock growled, unimpressed. "He's been through this before."

"I didn't know about the kidnapping until _after_ the event" Mycroft defended himself. "Carruthers told me he had a chance to win Miss Moriarty's trust, but nothing more. I gave him carte blanche."

"To be a kidnapper?" Sherlock was not to be consoled.

"I'm sure John was never in danger" Mycroft objected.

Sherlock darted round, shouting in anger. "From the bit he's told me, I know John was scared witless. Isn't that enough?" Only inwardly he added "_and so was I, for a while. James had me on that rack for years!_"

"John's not a child, for God's sake" Mycroft snarled, and, as if reading Sherlock's mind, he added "Any road, you had no right to betray your own country."

"I did not betray merry old England" Sherlock sneered. "I just made sure that you must share the spoils of your victory. I owe much more to the Germans than to you, brother dear. The Lucky Cat has taught me to honour my obligations as best I can."

"So I am supposed to be grateful you informed Demirkan and not the Chinese?"

"You're damned right, big brother, that's exactly how you're supposed to feel."

"Sherlock, you _want__ed_ to work alone, against James' organisation. For all your pretty promises, you've kept me in the dark, from the first step to the last. Even about a certain hard disk full of vital information."

"And how right I was to do it. You'd blown my whole operation to pieces!"

Both were breathing heavily, both were at a loss as to what to say now.

In the end, it was the elder brother who made the first step, albeit it did not exactly sound like one. "Let's say I'm willing to overlook your childish antics, Sherlock. Let's say, we're even. What now?"

It took the wind out of Sherlock's sails. Pushed out of his well rehearsed tracks, he felt awkward. Mycroft should not give in so easily. The younger brother knew how to battle him; however, _defeating_ the big brother in an argument was unknown territory.

"By the way" the same elder brother continued lightly, using the other's brief bewilderment "the farewell note in your computer – Demirkan sent me a copy. It looked genuine to … anyone but me!" No need to tell Sherlock how _very _genuine it had looked. In the first moment, genuine enough to cause nausea. "Miss Moriarty faked it well."

At once, Sherlock regained his arrogance. "She didn't fake anything. Years ago I drafted a farewell note. I planned on sending it to you on Halloween, together with a photo of my smashed head."

Mycroft, who had sat down on the bed, rose again. "You _what_?"

"Relax big brother, I never sent it. I just kept it. You know, sentiment. She must have found it in my cloud."

Rubbing his forehead discreetly, Mycroft thought that it was another one of these moments with his brother. One he should not dwell on for too long.

Sometimes Mycroft marvelled at his younger brother's rare gift for hurting him.

A change of subject. Tarantula needed a change of subject, _now_! "Would you mind telling me what you know about Vanessa Moriarty?" he asked his younger sibling.

"What" Sherlock shot back "the woman _I_ asked _you_ to investigate because she was close to John? The woman _you_ said was just a hare-brained little actress?"

"As you've obviously found out who and what she is, what are you complaining about? My plan worked a treat, she'll take Carruthers into the heart of Chinese intelligence. You always were a bit squeamish, Sherlock."

"You lied to me!" the younger repeated.

"For the God's sake Sherlock, we've been lying to each other from the cradle."

To Mycroft's pleasant surprise, Sherlock clapped his mouth shut for a moment. "_Little brother, fo__r once I can glimpse into your mind_" the elder thought. "Truth be told' _you're saying to yourself_ 'it's fair enough. I can't deny it'. _Isn't that what you're thinking, little one? You and your peculiar sense of fairness. Always misguided."_

And, with his next words, Sherlock proved him right. "All right, Mycroft. Let's call it even. But I'm the victim here, choice of weapons is mine. And my verdict is: Half an hour of total truth, for each of us."

As Mycroft kept silent and looked away, Sherlock pressed on. "C'me on, brother dear. I'll start if it makes you feel better."

Mycroft sat down again. "Who am I to decline an opportunity of hearing 30 minutes of truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, from my own brother?"

"Good" Sherlock said eagerly. "Vanessa really _is _James Moriarty's twin sister. That's why the Lucky Cat chose her as his operative when James became a nuisance. Long before the submarine weapon plans. As early as James started working for the Black Lotos."

"But?" Mycroft prompted.

"_But_" Sherlock said angrily – he absolutely detested interruptions when he was in his 'lecturing mode', as Mycroft knew perfectly well – "Professor Chang had to take the Black Lotos' allies inside China into consideration. Therefore he needed Moran's denunciation of James as the person responsible for the fraudulent sale of the weapon plans. With that, he could finally proceed against the Consulting Criminal. Nobody would dare protecting someone who'd made so many Chinese officials lose their faces."

"You're cheating, Sherlock" Mycroft stated punitively. "That's quite obvious. You're wasting my time." Mentally the elder brother crossed his fingers behind his back. It hadn't been so obvious to him at first. Actually it had taken him quite a while to figure it all out.

Sherlock glared at him before he continued, now also comfortably on the bed, his fingers in front of his face forming the same old pyramid. "Vanessa had a soft spot for the Far East, she studied Far Eastern Literature and Art at several universities, Berlin among them."

"Which was why you, as Alfred Musil, developed a sudden interest in the same sciences" Mycroft interrupted again, just to see the comical irritation in his brother's face once more.

"Yes, obviously, I thought I might get some useful information about James' once closest but now demised associate. May I go on now?"

"Naturally, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

"No, you're not" the younger Holmes said, audibly miffed. He let a few seconds pass in silence before he went on "Vanessa also studied the higher levels of criminal consulting with her brother James. I stumbled on the existence of a sibling when James gave me some of his crime schemes. They differed in style and sophistication. They were all brilliant, but some were even better than the others."

"Hers?" Mycroft assumed, but clapped his mouth shut at once.

"Hers" a frowning younger brother confirmed. "Although, when I confronted James with my suspicion, he denied it. Cost me two weeks in 'the room', actually." Sherlock bit his lip. He hadn't wanted to talk about that. Brought him too close to talking about how he had felt back then.

It was pure kindness on Mycroft's side that he ignored the slip of the tongue. "Then who told you?"

"Jenkins never touched liquor, but one day he was raving drunk. He yelled at me, said that James would finish me off the way he'd done away with his twin. James had hired one of his snipers to murder his own sibling. Jim Moriarty wasn't one for sharing his glory."

"That's the sharpest contrast to the Holmes family's warm and close ties from heart to heart" Mycroft replied amiably. "Is it not?"

"Indeed, dearest brother. However, it rattled Sebastian Moran more than me. He'd been regretting his joining up with James for quite a while, but from that day on, he wanted out. Sebastian had murdered his own brother, the _wrong_ brother, naturally, but the thought of James murdering his sibling gave him the creep. Aren't ordinary people peculiar?"

"You tell me" Mycroft said "you're the expert. You know them much better than I do."

Sherlock gave him a suspicious look, but the sleek surface of Mycroft's unmoved face gave nothing away. Especially not the thought of Sherlock and John, and their friendship, and how much Mycroft envied them for it.

"Well" the younger Holmes continued a bit uncomfortably "the mobile hard disk was Sebastian's idea. He had access to James' network, but he could make neither head nor tail of what he saw. He gave me access, and I stored the relevant stuff. Would have been the best life insurance, if only we had got the disk out when we escaped."

"Why didn't you?"

"Jenkins had craftsmen in the house the evening of our escape. He locked me up, with Sebastian as my guard. Neither of us could get the disk without running into Jenkins. Sebastian assured me he had the two RCs, or I wouldn't have left." Sherlock cleared his throat, rose, and started pacing again. With his back to his elder brother, he added "I'm sorry to say that the Colonel lied to me, and I didn't notice."

Mycroft was silent at first. A confession like that from Sherlock Holmes – it made up for a lot of things in the past few months. In the past few _years_. "Stealing the plans from me was the next best thing" he gently told Sherlock's stiff shoulder blades. "It grieves me to say that I thought differently at the time. If only for a day or two. Before I had a surgeon cut the chip out of my neck. And I wish... there'd been a way to let you know that I was safe."

"The clearest sign that you are getting on in years" Sherlock snapped insultingly, and their world was once again straightened out.

"By the way, just to humour my curiosity" Mycroft said lightly, to ease any potential residue of abashed tension, "where did you hide the hard disk? No one could retrieve it, Moriarty did not know it was there, the BND overlooked it, my men did, undoubtedly the Chinese searched the villa in Grunewald themselves..."

"Under a floor board in 'the room'" Sherlock said. "When I wasn't … confined there, it was the only place in the house with no life cameras or microphones. Nobody dreamt of looking for me there, even if I vanished from their monitors. They were too sure I'd never go near the place voluntarily. Jenkins once found me, immediately in front of the door, and even so he thought I'd come in from the gardens."

"Must have been awkward for you" Mycroft said. During the last few months, he'd tried to watch Moriarty's 'research report' several times. He'd never come very far, but even the small part he _had_ seen made him sick. Both brothers suffered from claustrophobia since childhood, and to imagine Sherlock in this cell was – not agreeable.

"It had its moments" the younger brother retorted curtly. "Anyway, my first night back in Berlin, after I had rid myself of Peter, I retrieved the disk from the abandoned house. Lucky me, must have been the only time no one was on my tail."

"Indeed" Mycroft said musingly. "Still, there's the question of how the Lucky Cat came to recruit Miss Moriarty in the first place. But you can't know that, of course..."

"Why not, it's obvious enough" Sherlock retorted, preposterously pleased with himself, just as Mycroft had thought he'd be. "She was in China when James ordered her execution, Macao I should think. Until then, James had suppressed his resentment against her, as she had suited his purpose. It must have been her who brought James into contact with the Black Lotos, a thing that was bound to catch the Lucky Cat's attention."

"So?"

"So Professor Chang sent Li Gong to intercept Miss Moriarty. Befriend her. Perhaps this whole love affair was staged, at least in the beginning. Vanessa needed support to escape her brother's murder scheme; this will have helped to win her over. Small wonder James' plans to take over the Black Lotos' network in Europe and the U. S. weren't very successful."

"How much does Vanessa know about you?" Mycroft asked. That a foreign service should have intimate information about his brother was - disquieting, to put it mildly. Tarantula felt – exposed. Naked.

In blissful ignorance of his brother's professional paranoia, Sherlock was untroubled. "She knows quite a lot about me, I shouldn't wonder. Doubtlessly she had someone inside James' spider-web. _Aaand._..." Sherlock drawled that last bit out with vicious relish "the Lucky Cat sure gave her a copy of James' research report."

Mycroft flinched in indignation. Why was everyone taking him for a coward, just because he was reluctant to know _everything_ about Sherlock's captivity? Preferring to _not_ have some pictures in his head wasn't so very unnatural. They'd haunt him forever.

Perhaps Sherlock would like that.

Clearing his throat irritably, Mycroft changed the position of his legs.

Sherlock smiled briefly. Big brother had done that even as a boy, whenever he'd felt uncomfortable.

As baby brother enjoyed his jibe, the professional in Tarantula won the upper hand. For all the petty bickering, he had heard a perfect analysis. And it sounded so easy, as if every six year old could have figured it all out. That was the mastery of it, Mycroft presumed. A child's game for the one, impossible to do for almost any other. The little one was still as sharp as he'd always been.

"Miss Moriarty must feel euphoric about her achievements" he said to Sherlock. "The last remains of her brother's legacy destroyed, the last missing pieces of the Black Lotos puzzle in her handbag – mission accomplished. The Lucky Cat will be proud of her."

Sherlock snorted softly. "You better be glad. This euphoria is the only thing that keeps Carruthers alive. It obviously blinds her enough to overlook the holes in his story. The woman is smart. _Real_ smart."

"Coming from you" an astonished Mycroft replied "that's high praise indeed."

"The woman is special, as I said" Sherlock retorted, and it was clear that he considered the matter closed.

Now it was Mycroft's turn to smile to himself. _Soo__o,_ little brother. '_**The**_ woman'. Interesting. Very interesting.

"That should cover it" Sherlock meanwhile said. "I think the rest you know."

Mycroft opened his mouth to deny that. He was filled with questions, almost bursting. This was a singular moment, a chance to get things right with his brother, once and for all. Indeed, the words were stumbling about each other in his head" _Sherlock, please forgive me, I should have found out where you are, what happened to you, why you did what you did ... tell me __how you felt during these five years, let me help you, share it with me the way you did with John back at Angelo's, give me a chance to make amends for all my blunders, for all my wrong turns..._.."

"Time's up, brother dear" Sherlock said with much relief, taking his eyes from the wall clock to once more glare at his brother. "I've kept my side of the bargain. 30 minutes of absolute truth from me. I'm free. Your turn now."

"Sherlock, I want..."

"Oh no Mycroft, too late to back off now. I can ask what I want and you must answer. You promised!"

"Sherlock, no, I..."

"Gotcha. You _promised_!" The younger looked like a puppy that had only just gained its first fresh bone.

Mycroft looked at him - and found it in his heart to surrender "You're right, Sherlock. I promised. It's just that – you've figured it all out. I don't know what to tell you."

Sherlock turned away again, drumming his fingers on his right leg, his cheeks burning red with unwanted pleasure about the sudden, unhoped-for compliment.

But then, and for the one reason alone that he _wanted_ his elder brother to be at fault, he smelled a non-existent rat. "Do you want to take me to London tonight?" he snapped after a long minute of silence.

"Sure. If you want to."

Mycroft saw his brother grimace in the mirror of the window pane. "Since when do you care what I want?" Sherlock said truculently.

"Since when do you _know _what you want?" Mycroft asked back.

"I always knew what I _don't _want. For example, being locked up in that hospital by your order. Or being forced to ask you for money. Or you spying on me, everywhere I go."

"Would you believe me if I told you that your withdrawal in the hospital had nothing to do with my career?" Mycroft asked back.

"You sacrificed our mother for the family reputation, why not me for yours?"

The elder brother flinched violently. An hour of truth. Indeed. For years and years Sherlock must have carried that question in his mind, to spit it out now. So much for this 'truth' game being a spontaneous idea! How long had little brother planned for this moment?

Yet, now that Tarantula had walked into Sherlock's trap, there was no other defence but the truth.

"Mother was _crushed_ by our father while he lived" Mycroft said quietly, but with great urgency. "When he died, he took a part of her with him. She wasn't fit for this world, Sherlock, neither of us could've changed that. Had I told anyone what our father did – to her, to you – we both had ended up with some legal guardians. They'd shipped me off to heaven knows where and you to an asylum first chance they got. There was a fortune to be made, if only one could push the two of us aside."

"You were of age!"

"When mother died, yes. When our father died I was but sixteen, and his testament was what counted. You were a child and after what he'd done to you, they'd easily denounced you as mentally afflicted. A perfect excuse for holding you under disability for as long as they wanted. I had no choice!"

"So you just told anyone what a great man our father had been, and what a wonderful woman our mother was. You effectively had control of everything and mother never got the care she needed until it was too late!"

"Our mother was beyond all rescue since her wedding night!"

"You wanted to protect the family fortune!"

"For God's sake Sherlock, I wanted to protect _you_, can't you get that into your head?"

"_When _did you want to protect me, when you got me a solicitor for a guardian as you left to start your career, or when you had me dragged into that damn hospital, with no one the wiser, to spare your bosses an embarrassment?"

Mycroft raised his hands, desperate to explain himself. "I admit I started to search for you to avoid damage to my reputation, but when I found you …. you were _dying,_ Sherlock. What did you expect me to do? Leave you in the gutter to die like a rat?"

"It's your half hour of truth, brother dear. You tell me."

"You told John you know I love you."

"I never denied you love me, you just never understood me."

"Sherlock Holmes, you do not _wish_ to be understood. You prefer to be an enigma. Ask John, he'll tell you the same thing. And as to money – you always told your clients you don't need an incentive. Seems to me you _wanted_ to come to me from time to time."

Mycroft had meant that as a mere shot in the dark, but the effect was astonishing. Sherlock was completely baffled. Vanessa had said something about him being an enigma, too, and as to the question of money...

Belatedly it occurred to Mycroft that he, unintentionally, had hit on a very sore spot within his brother. "_Oh, little one. What an oaf I sometimes was_." All these years, all these quarrels about trifles of sums – they had been the little one's way to make sure they stayed in touch, without ever admitting that he _liked_ arguing with his brother.

In obvious frustration, Sherlock paced another few steps, then he uselessly fumbled with the pillow. "That still leaves the spying thing" he complained, quite lamely compared to his former passionate accusations. With that he dropped all his former issues as if he'd never thought of fighting them through.

But then, perhaps he hadn't. Who knew what was going on in that funny old head, as Mrs Hudson had once put it? Certainly not Mycroft Holmes. Never had, and never would know. A glimpse, a shred, sometimes, but the whole truth living behind these grey-green eyes? Never.

Even now, Mycroft had no clue as to why and how the discussion about their parents, a debate they both had been waiting to have for all their adult lives, was now over. As abruptly as it had started. Whether Sherlock had got what he'd wanted from it – who would be the judge of that?

Tarantula would not arrogate that right to himself. "Had I spied on you five years ago, Moriarty had never captured you" he stated, answering Sherlock's last question. "I feel very strongly that I've let you down, little brother. And I will always feel that way. If you were to consider that ample punishment for my sins – couldn't we start anew? You and I?"

Sherlock stared at him, wide eyed. Suspicion battled with another feeling Mycroft couldn't quite put a name to. Hope? A wish to let bygones be bygones, if only to get a bit of rest? A feeling that enough was enough? That a little trust was due, for both their sakes?

Whatever it was, the battle didn't last long. Sherlock face showed that he had come to a decision. He took a bag from the wardrobe, and threw the few things Demirkan had taken from his flat into it.

"You're packing." Mycroft stated, when the silence became stale.

"Good deduction" Sherlock curtly answered.

"Going anywhere particular?"

"No, not really. Berlin's a big city."

"Half the size of London, though."

"Bound to happen when you're cut in halves for forty years. It could still grow up."

"Cheaper than London, too. But you'll still have to live."

Sherlock drew a deep breath, but he said nothing.

"Naturally" Mycroft went on "there's still the money I gave to John on your behalf. He'll be pleased to be the one with the unlimited credit card for a change."

"I do not need him. I've got my Stradivarius. Musil says I'm quite good." Sherlock zipped the bag and went for his coat. Still the one Vanessa had taken from John's wardrobe.

"Sherlock" Mycroft said. "Come back to London. Please."

The younger man's hand hovered above the coat, in two minds about grabbing it or leaving it. "This case is closed" he said.

"There will be other cases."

"I don't want charity from you, Mycroft."

"But John and I – we could do with some charity from _you_, my boy."

"You're way pass the thirty minutes limit, big brother. No need to expose yourself like that. It's embarrassing."

Silently Mycroft collected his own things, opened the door, and left without another word.

For long minutes his brother awaited his return. With more arguments. With John and his irrefutable common sense. Or with four bullies and a straight-jacket.

Only at long last Sherlock believed that Mycroft had left him for good.

The younger brother analysed his feelings. He'd learned to do that as a child whose emotions had been nothing but an open flank in hostile surroundings. An incalculable, unacceptable risk.

'Mycroft gone' felt - infuriating and gratifying. Threatening as well as liberating. A crippling, painful loss, but it allowed Sherlock to breathe easily.

After long, dark ages in a coffin of oppression, he stepped into the light and felt that he was free.

Marvellous experience.

If a somewhat lonely one.

It was a bit - ambigious. And ambigious was bad.

Sherlock decided that he needed time to think.

Neither freedom nor loneliness would be going anywhere.


	36. Baker Street Reloaded

**36. Baker Street reloaded**

John stretched his aching body and listened to his bones creaking. His belly was full, and he was fed up in more than only one sense of the word.

"You better wait until tomorrow or the next day, before speaking to him" Peter, who had taken quite a liking to the doctor, said as he carried their plates to the service hatch. "I could arrange things with the Oberstleutnant. Judging from Mycroft's face, little brother is not of a facile disposition presently."

"He rarely is" John replied. "Part of Sherlock Holmes' personal charm. A bit on the lethal side, but fascinating."

"Well, then good night, doctor."

"Good night, Peter. And thanks for everything. Give my regards to Demirkan."

"I will" Peter said, already half through the door. He was yawning again.

Watson watched the young German leave, sighed about his stiff joints, thought that it had been a long and tedious night, and went upstairs.

He nodded at the army hospital's night staff. One of them answered his question about Sherlock by jerking his head towards the familiar door.

Inside John found his friend, completely dressed, lying in the bed, with the blanket pulled, not over his body, but over his head.

"Sherlock, no time for that, planes and tide wait for no man."

"What plane?" was the muffled reply.

"The plane to London. Big city on a small island; all the people love to drink tea, except for those who prefer coffee. Remember it by any chance?"

"Get lost!"

"We both will. Tonight. Get up!"

"No!"

"Yes."

"No!"

Sherlock yelped when a flush of ice cold water splattered on his head. He emerged from under the soaked blanket, shocked and furious. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Getting you ready for travelling. Oh, I see, your bag is already packed. How thoughtful of you. Now get up."

"I'm staying!"

"Sorry, out of the question. London awaits, Berlin does not. Sad, but inevitable. Move your arse."

"My flat..."

"Demirkan has collected your gear, it'll be sent to London, Mycroft will take care of that."

"The devil he will. What about Musil?"

"Will be happy to receive your regular, friendly letters from London."

"But the flat you bought in Berlin?" Sherlock sounded definitely distraught by now.

"Oh, I guess I'm going to sell it. Lucky me, property's on the rise in Berlin I'm told. Can you walk or do you need a wheelchair?"

Sherlock jumped out of the bed and fought for his bag. However, John was determined, Sherlock still a bit shaky and seriously punching John was out of the question anyway.

When John twisted his arm behind his back, Sherlock knew he'd lost the struggle. His "let go of me!" wasn't very convincing.

"Are you coming peacefully or do I have to call for a sedative?" John asked.

"Don't you dare!"

"I am the doctor here, I dare anything."

Sherlock held still, but John decided he wasn't trustworthy. "And do not even think about asking Musil to take you in" he told Sherlock. "He's adamant he'll not go against your brother's wishes again."

"I'm a free man, a British citizen, I can do what I want!"

"You are a British citizen as soon as your brother returns your passport to you. Until then, German authorities can chuck you out whenever they want. Or detain you as an illegal immigrant. Come to London, we're used to immigrants."

Sherlock stiffened. "This is Mycroft's idea? He has taken my passport?" he asked, and it sounded contrite rather than angry. Very disappointed.

"No" John replied. "I did. But I put the passport into Mycroft's bag when he left a while ago and I doubt he'll find it any time soon. Demirkan has taken care of your flight to London by some special arrangements he did not want to talk about. Come on, we must hurry as it is."

"Mycroft has nothing to do with this?" Sherlock insisted. John could see a shiver run down his spine underneath the thin, wet shirt.

"No" Watson repeated, releasing his friend. "Your elder brother respected your wishes, although I'm pretty sure they broke his heart."

Sherlock sucked air through his teeth, and his muscles relaxed. He said nothing, but suddenly he looked – unsure.

"I, on the other hand" John pressed on "am not a respectful person. I want to go home, have a decent tea, and as you're clearly unable to take care of yourself, I have to do it for you. Which I can't if you're in Berlin. Can you follow my drift or should I speak more slowly?"

"You're a presumptuous, domineering, supercilious pain in the arse, John Watson."

"Look who's talking. And I'm bound to be commanding sometimes, I'm a trained officer. _Captain_ John Watson, in case you've forgotten. Now, let's see, I've got your bag, I've got your coat, I've got your purse – hoo, heavy – great, let's go."

"It's going to be the ruin of my musical career!"

"Yes, Sherlock, I know. Although I've heard it rumoured that the English know about the existence of music and the violin. After you!"

On their way out, in the taxi, at the airport and when they boarded the plane, Sherlock didn't say another word to John. Which was fine with Watson, as he was ghastly tired.

The plane took off, and John dared to relax. For the moment, Sherlock had no means of escape and Watson was drifting off to sleep when the admonitory voice pierced his marrow and bone: "I'll never forgive you!"

"You will" John retorted. "As much as I will forgive your lies, your manipulations, your deceit, the fact that you've cost me Vanessa's love -"

Sherlock snorted and quickly covered it with a well feigned bout of sneezing.

However, not well feigned enough to fool a physician. "Whatever this awful sneezing is meant to tell me, it won't wash. You've treated me like dirt, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and it is _me_ who is to forgive _you_, understood? Not vice versa!"

Sherlock folded his arms defiantly and stared out of the window.

Later, on their arrival at 221B, he made a show of greeting Mrs Hudson warm-heartedly, only to disappear into his bedroom immediately afterwards, locking the door behind him, leaving his landlady stranded with all her natural curiosity.

"What he's been up to all this time?" she asked Watson, who was by now swaying on his feet with exhaustion. The last sleep he'd got had been drug induced by Carruthers, and therefore not very wholesome.

"He's been on a case, Mrs Hudson. A long, complicated and not very pleasant case. Now we're back home. For good. I'm sure Mycroft has already told you that. There's no escape from the man."

"Yes, now that you mention it, he did phone me, told me that you're in a plane, that you're sure would stay the night here, naturally I had not given the flat to somebody else, but …... " her tone of voice changed from bewildered to irritable "it has been months and months and you didn't call, you never wrote... I do have an E-Mail address, you know."

John pulled himself together, mobilising his last reserves to do it. "I promise there will be another blog, Mrs Hudson. I'll explain everything to the best of my abilities, unless national security intervenes. One never knows with the Holmes boys."

She lingered in the door frame. "So... you're really back home. Both of you?"

"Yes, Mrs Hudson. And if he forces me to chain him to the bed once more – rest assured, I'll not hesitate."

She chuckled, if a bit nervously. "This time I'll not let him out."

She yelped when John gave her a big bear hug. "You are a very clever woman, Mrs Hudson, did I ever tell you that?"

"Not in so many words" she replied as he let go of her. "Know what, I'll make you a nice hot cup of tea."

"At four o'clock in the morning?"

"You look as if you need one."

"I do" John said. "Gosh, I really do."

Mrs Hudson went downstairs and busied herself in her own kitchen, and when she returned with tea, milk, orange juice, self-made cakes and a sandwich on a tray, she found Watson still in the living-room. Curled up on the sofa, fast asleep. Sighing, she put out the candle in the tea-warmer, covered the a bit less impossible and unbearable of her two tenants with a blanket, and went to bed herself.

Some hours later John was woken up by the clattering of plates and cutlery, and by a soft but insistent stream of cursing.

Sherlock was rummaging through the tray's treasures, and he was not amused. The tea was cold, the juice was warm, the toast soaky – but finally the cakes and the milk found favour with him.

To John's eye, the Detective looked like a bad-spirited cat, what with all his prancing round the table, looking here, sniffing there – so the choice of food was quite fitting.

Silently Watson watched his friend loading one plate – naturally, _one_ plate – with all the available cakes, walk to his favourite chair, sit down cross-legged and begin stuffing his face, all of a sudden a picture of good-humoured contentment.

"You could have left one or two cakes for me" John said. "After all it was _my_ tray."

Sherlock looked up, chewing away most happily. He took his time swallowing, said "you were asleep!" and bit into another cake. The last one.

"And you did not want to wake me, so you almost broke the teapot and chatted to yourself at your heart's content" John stated.

"Yes, well. You always were a light sleeper!" Holmes finished the milk, jumped to his feet, put plate and mug back on the tray, and turned to leave. "I'm going to see Mycroft. Have a nice day."

John was off the couch and in front of the door at lightening speed, but Sherlock was just as fast. As a result, they bumped into each other in their haste to either reach or block the exit.

"Glad to see you've got your agility back" John panted, rubbing his aching ribs.

"Great good it'll do me if I'm locked up in here" Sherlock shot back. He was wary, and tensed. John knew, one move towards him would set off the worst tantrum in the history of mankind. But at least Holmes made no other attempts at getting out.

Instead Sherlock turned abruptly, went into his room, and locked the door again.

Nothing John or Mrs Hudson did or said would make him unlock it.

The scratching on the violin started at three o'clock in the following night, and it did not stop.

Belatedly John realized that, as his Stradivarius was still on its way from Berlin, Sherlock must have dug out his second violin, the one he'd had as a child. The one Mrs Hudson had kept in Sherlock's old room during all this time, as John had not minded while the room had been his. Most probably Holmes had gone through the chests and dressers immediately on his arrival last night.

John also remembered that relying on Sherlock getting exhausted any time soon was not a solution. Everybody in earshot of the misbegotten sounds would go mad long before Sherlock was the least bit tired.

At the first convenient hour – which, by the judgement of John's frayed nerves was seven o'clock – he called Mycroft. No response. E-Mail, text message, phone call again – no response.

A visit at Mycroft's office, while Mrs Hudson stood guard at Sherlock's door – no elder Holmes.

John took up his post on the other side of the road. He watched the office building for many an hour, living on coffee and dry sandwiches from a little shop nearby.

Dusk was falling when the familiar lean figure with the umbrella left the building, waved at the outraged watcher, jumped into a car and was gone.

John stood frozen in his place. He did not believe what he had just seen.

His mobile buzzed.

When he fumbled it out of his pocket with stiff, trembling fingers, he found a message.

"_I told you he did not want to come. I respect his wishes, something I've never tried before. It's an __experimen__t. I'm anxious to see the results. MH"_

Watson stared at the display, lost for words. Or thoughts. His mind was – blank.

The phone buzzed again, and automatically he took the next message.

"_Glad you brought him home, though. Good luck! MH"_

Watson's fingers pressed the keys, and his answer was sent.

"_Coward! JW"_

The answer came immediately.

"_You're the expert. I'm told Harry's still on the bottle. MH"_

John cursed viciously when he sent another message.

"_ASSHOLE! JW"_

Mycroft replied immediately.

"_Better __that than a single child. MH_"

The phone did not buzz again.

John bought himself a newspaper, as well as a huge amount of his favourite sweets, and went home, resolved to surrender to his fate with dignity.

He found Mrs Hudson in their kitchen, holding her head with both hands, a new package of her favourite painkillers on the table in front of her. Four pills were missing.

Behind Sherlock's locked door, the violin howled and screeched in utter lunacy.

"Perhaps, if I just begged for mercy" Mrs Hudson said weakly.

"No use, I'm afraid" John sighed. "He won't give mercy when he's convinced none is shown to him. Fancy a visit at your sister's?"

"You can't guard him alone. He can go without sleep, _we_ can't."

"Then we're doomed" John answered.

She nodded, and laid her head on the table.

It was just in this moment that the door bell rang.

Both wretched human beings had the same thought: "_Mycroft_!"

John was down the stairs and at the door first, opened it – and his face fell, as grey as ashes.

"Sorry, John, its urgent" Detective Inspector Lestrade said. "No need to show me upstairs, I remember the route."

With a few long strides the DI was on the first floor, and banged against Sherlock's door. "Sherlock? A murder case, three dead last year. One police officer critically wounded, and not a clue whodunnit. I need you."

John heard the key turn in the lock, the door was opened – as usual it squeaked a bit – then Sherlock thundered "Mycroft's sent you!"

"No, I called _him_" Lestrade retorted irritably. "Asked him about your whereabouts a thousand times before I got a straight answer. You're back, pouting, sulking, as selfish as ever. Now, it's a solution for this case – day before yesterday – or I'm out of job. Will you come?"

"I do not like cold cases."

"Well, who cares, most people do not like you either. Besides, next victim's due any time now. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"Who do you think? 'But before Scotland Yard five years are as one day'. Anderson hasn't gone anywhere."

Sherlock was silent.

John pressed his thumbs until they hurt.

Then he could hear from Sherlock's voice that he was grinning. "That'll be fun!"

"Yeah, sure" Lestrade said.

A moment later both DI and Consulting Detective ran down the stairs, almost knocking Watson over in the process.

"Where's your jacket, John?" Sherlock asked sternly, ignoring Mrs Hudson, who stood immediately behind the surgeon.

"What would I need my jacket for?"

"It's cold. Not just the case. Outside."

"Are you in need of an assistant?"

"Lost without one."

John swallowed hard before he answered. "I'm coming."

"Sherlock, you'll have to eat" Mrs Hudson intervened.

"The game, Mrs Hudson. The game is on" Sherlock answered, already running.

Mrs Hudson helped John into his jacket with all possible speed, and whispered "You see, I'll never know what game he thinks this is."

Watson turned, pecked a quick kiss on her cheek and grinned "try Baker Street reloaded."

On their way to the car, Lestrade grabbed John's shoulder and hissed "you and I have an awful lot of talking to do."

"Whenever you're ready" John hissed back.

Outside, perfectly hidden in the shadows, Anthea watched the three of them drive off in an unmarked police car. Her nimble fingers furiously worked her i-phone.

Miles away, Mycroft first frowned, then smiled at his own phone.

"_You were right. A._"

Relaxed, Tarantula fell back into his comfortable seat before he helped himself to a glass of vodka.

How very comforting to know that his little brother had forgiven himself. No more fretting about Moriarty being smarter, no berating himself for his inability to escape the Consulting Criminal's den.

Seemed as if the final victory over James' inheritance – and over Tarantula's plans to infiltrate Chinese Intelligence with none the wiser - had finally restored Sherlock's self-esteem.

Mycroft Holmes raised his glass in salute. "Happy birthday, little one. Heaven knows, you've earned it."


	37. A swan sang in Souzhou

**37. A swan that once sang in Souzhou**

Lieutenant – actually Captain, as of today – Tschou Dai stood at stiff attention in front of his superior's desk. "I will not belie your expectations" he said, most formally.

"No, of course you won't" Professor Chang Tse-Dong replied kindly, like a friendly grandfather.

And it was indeed that what he thought. The young Captain _would_ meet his expectations, all of them.

Lucky Cat expected Tschou Dai to be young, ambitious, dashing, and to look a picture in his uniform. Thanks to his two uncles, he had the best connections. His own expectations flew high, his ego was big – only his brain was somewhat smaller.

Chang Tse Dong turned his gaze away from his sister's son to the window that overlooked the Garden of Great Harmony. Under a perfectly beautiful willow tree, not too far away, Li Gong was talking to Carruthers.

What a fine actor the Brit was. His surprise at waking up a 'guest' of the Chinese Secret Service when he'd been supposed to think he was joining a criminal organisation, his reluctance to give up any of his MI 6-knowledge to his 'hosts', his shrewd bargaining for money, assurances, privileges – all very, very convincing.

A perfect performance; Chang had secretly enjoyed every minute of it.

Mycroft Holmes had chosen his best man, no doubt about it.

Much as Chang Tse-Dong had chosen his very best to lure the mole here.

'The woman' had done well, very well indeed. She deserved her reward, as much as Li Gong did.

The Lucky Cat sighed. He was a patient man. His life had taught him that virtue, the hard way.

For five months Carruthers had not even thought of contacting anyone outside Souzhou. The Chinese had given him every chance, every opportunity, but not once the Brit had strayed from the path of total radio silence.

Two nights ago, at last, he had made contact with the man whom Chang supposed to be his permanent link to his superiors in London. One word only: "_Arrival._"

The mole's connection to London was now online, ready to be fed with every misinformation, every shred of distracting news, every bit of confusing, incoherent signals that Beijing would want to spread, in order to lay false trails for the English and their allies.

Creating that access to the heart of MI 6 was most probably the greatest achievement of Chang Tse-Dong's career. Twice, no, a dozen times worth the blunder of the submarine weapon plans.

Big enough for Chang to press his own choice of a successor through the Secret Committee.

Far, far more important than the misguided group of religious dimwits and potential terrorists Mycroft had warned his Chinese counterpart about.

Nevertheless, they had been a nice bonus. And, of course, they had been dealt with.

And yet, what was this operation compared to bringing a dedicated line to London into life. Really, as long as Mycroft believed that Chang believed in Carruthers, the British mole was worth his weight in purest gold.

Like every valuable asset, this belief, and the man it was invested in, needed most careful handling. Mr Carruthers' false feeling of security, and Mycroft Holmes' trust, had to be treated like fresh eggs on a bumpy road.

Which brought the Lucky Cat's musings back to his gallant nephew.

Tschou Dai was a lot of things, but patient or cautious he was not.

If Chang had had a single other choice, his nephew would not have succeeded him. Anyone would have suited better, anyone in this world.

But Tschou Dai _was_ family. Which meant, that the lucky Cat did _not_ have another choice.

The alternative would have been to chose one of Chang's or Tsong's own sons for the job, and _that_ was out of the question.

Both the Lucky cat and colonel Tsong had grown old in that kind of service to their country, and they both loved their sons, deeply.

Unfortunately, giving up the advantages both families had from having a high-ranking Secret Service official in their ranks was also out of the question.

So, it had to be Tschou Dai.

Who now was – and had been for minutes – talking to his uncle, as Chang realized only now. "I'm very honoured" the young man repeated - no doubt not for the first time - "that you've chosen me as your successor in your high office. I take it as an obligation, but also as a token of your trust in me, for which I've been working all these years. Far be it from me to compare my humble achievements to the continuous triumphs of your outstanding career, but I pride myself, although most shamelessly, that I have lived up to your expectations so far and that I will go on doing so for the rest of yo... of _my _life."

The young Captain stood there, smiling radiantly, slightly sweating, slightly panting, furtively tugging at his new, fancy uniform, and all Chang could think was: "_Heaven have mercy on you my boy, you're going to need it."_

Tschou's mother had doubtlessly hammered this nice little speech into her son's brain, and, knowing his sister as he did, Chang did not think it beyond her that _she_ would want to be the new head of the Souzhou office. If only as the power behind the throne.

Lucky Cat smiled indulgently at his nephew. "I have every trust and confidence in you, my boy. Every confidence" was what he said. "_Beijing better makes haste to make good use of Mr Carruthers. You're going to ruin the biggest success of Chinese Intelligence, my boy, and it'll take you not more than a year_" was what he thought.

"As I said, I'll never disappoint you, uncle, you'll never regret withdrawing to well deserved retirement." The young man stood, if possible, even smarter at attention.

"One last word of advice" Chang said with slight urgency, pointing at the window and the two people under the willow tree. "When the day comes that our friend Mr Carruthers can no longer be of service – it's never wise to burn a bridge unless one absolutely has to. You never know, one day this bridge might become precious to you. Mycroft Holmes is but in his mid forties."

"I understand, uncle" Tschou said, and the outrageous lie made his uncle sigh.

"What I mean is" Lucky Cat explained "the exchange of persons or assets between services is a time-honoured tradition. It does have its merits. As a rule, bloodshed is primitive and rarely helpful. Unsuitable between civilized people who'll have to do business with each other for decades to come."

"But" Tschou said, clearly confused "these religious idiots the British warned you about – you had them eradicated. Bloodshed, wouldn't you call it bloodshed? It's as if these poor fools had never lived."

Chang's voice and smile became even more warm-hearted. "I spoke of _unnecessary_ bloodshed, my boy. A fool today, a nuisance tomorrow, better be safe than sorry. However, the Europeans are like the poor – they'll be always with us. You see, there's weakness and there's wisdom, and it's the signature ability of a great man to tell the two apart."

"I see" Tschou said, and it was obvious that he did not. "Well" he soothed his upcoming doubts "I'll always have you to turn to for advice, dear uncle."

"Of course, dear boy. But perhaps it is just as well that your uncle Tsong has been recalled from his post in London. He's on his way to Souzhou as we speak."

Tschou's face fell. "Mother won't be pleased" he blurted out spontaneously.

"_No she won't_" the Lucky Cat thought. "_Unlike you, he's her equal, and mor__e than that._"

Aloud he said "my old friend Tsong is coming to take care of the little embarrassment you stumbled into, doubtlessly for no fault of your own. Li Gong's telling me the child's name is Dai Ang. How nice. A healthy son. A half-brother to the kids from your marriage."

"Yes" Tschou admitted, his now bent face covered in red.

"Be patient with me, my boy, old people _do_ love to give advice: Make it up with your wife. Tsong will take in your child as his own. He's a widower, and his sons do not mind. No harm done, no grieve left. Good husbands make good civil-servants. Beijing thinks so. Always has done, always will. You understand?"

"Yes uncle!"

"Then, my boy, we have nothing more to talk about. As of tomorrow, this office will be yours."

Stammering another stream of thanks and assurances, Tschou withdrew. Doubtlessly to phone his mother, as ordered. The Lady had not given her son a pretty dumb-ass for a wife without good reason. Where Chang Tse-Dong's sister ruled, no other ruler should prevail.

In the ante room to his uncle's office, Tschou met a pale, stern-looking Li Gong. "Where's Carruthers?" he asked her.

"On his way back to his quarters, I should think" she answered. "That's what he said."

As always, Tschou longed for a chance to damage that iron facade, to hurt the soft flesh beneath it. Oh, he _loved _teasing the ugly old bag. Especially as it had been Li Gong who'd informed his uncle about his little affair. Adultery, pah. What would _she_ know?

The Captain's gaze fell on the three bags in a corner. "Which other place the Cherry Blossom is going to grace with her beauty and charm?"

"As you're in need of a new assistant, I've taken the liberty of making a list of possible candidates" Li now said, ignoring his question. She handed him the list right away, and he, somewhat rattled, took it.

"I've given my notice to your uncle yesterday" Li explained. "My health, you know. I'll take up residence in a small house in the mountains. Country air, so to speak."

"Oh" Tschou said. Then, much livelier, he added "by the way, give my regards to that gorgeous friend of yours, what's her name, Vanessa?" There, if you want to hurt an ugly woman, praise her best friend's beauty.

"Professor Moriarty has graciously agreed to accompany me" Li said, her lips twisted into the parody of a sweet smile. "As a freelancer, she can do what she wants."

"You mean, what _I_ want" Tschou said threateningly. What did this woman think she could say to him? "Moriarty's a foreigner, she's here on sufferance alone."

"On your _uncle's_ sufferance" Li Gong said silkily, her appearance of modesty and the will to please as false as his friendly smile. "And _he_ suffered the two of us staying together from now on, as a reward for services rendered. I have it here. In writing. The country's official gratitude for all my years of loyal service."

"A two bed-room house" Tschou said vengefully. "Aren't single beds a bit lonely in a cold night for a woman? But then, _you_ must be used to it." Shamelessly, his eyes wandered over her face and body. When he looked away with a sneer it was like a slap in her face.

"_We _two women" Cherry Blossom replied "will sleep in _one_ bed. My gratitude for your kind concern on my behalf, but from this night on, I won't be lonely, ever again."

Tschou backed away, one step, two, three. As if he'd spotted some vermin crawling about. "Ha ha" he made, nervous and scared by her unheard-of boldness. "The beauty and the beast."

"Thanks for the compliment" was her reply. "Your uncle told me you love European Fairy Tales and all other forms of delusional make-believe. Good day to you, Captain."

Tschou made haste to get away, inwardly thanking fate that he would not have to see the ugly bitch when he came back to his office tomorrow. The thought lifted his spirits – his, his, _his_ office, oh, it was too good to be true!

Li Gong sat down when he had left. Carefully she straightened her skirt, her long black hair, her glasses. Her head and back were very erect.

She did not take up any work, she was done working here.

She waited.

Inside his office, Lucky Cat sipped his tea. Slowly. Deliberately.

He switched off the microphone in Li's ante room office. He had heard all he wanted to hear.

She had been marvellous, but then, she'd always been that, from day one.

"_What a difference_" he silently mused "_between people, even in their cruel__ty. The one does it because he doesn't know better, the other does it because cruelty is the only real emotion he has. I much prefer the first sort_."

He compared, in his thoughts, Tschou Dai to the young Englishman with the grey-green eyes. Cruel they were, always would be, both of them. Cruel like the Lucky Cat. Walking over people like over so much dirt.

And yet there was a peculiar sort of innocence in Sherlock Holmes.

For some weird reason buried deeply in his past, a reason Chang would have given much to know, Mycroft's brother just _had_ no other way of dealing with people. It wasn't quite the same thing. Tschou enjoyed the hurt he did to others. Sherlock was always surprised by it. The innocence of an animal that couldn't help itself but follow its nature.

Lucky Cat wondered, out of habit and a life-long, insatiable professional curiosity, if Mycroft had considered, however briefly, to use his brother as the mole.

Chang was glad it had not been so. He liked Mycroft's weird brother.

The Lucky Cat asked himself whether _he_ had used a family member, had their positions been reversed, and the answer was clear.

No.

Not even a pathetic, expendable know-nothing like Tschou Dai.

Anyway, Sherlock Holmes was far away now, living his own life again, and, as Chang hoped, strictly separated from big brother's line of business as far as humanly possible.

It was a comforting thought.

As the tea pot was empty, Lucky Cat browsed through the papers in front of him. It was all there, in plain language. The report of the British doctor, the one he'd seen during his stay in London. The much more recent report of the Chinese doctor, an old friend of his, here in Souzhou.

Both told him the same thing.

Cancer.

In his lungs and in his stomach.

Of course, there were still chances.

Chem-therapy. Radiation. Surgery. More surgery. And more therapy after that.

Medical science worked miracles these days.

Chang rose, stepped to the window, and looked at his beloved gardens.

It had been a good life.

A full life.

His family had been provided for, his handful of friends were safe, his country had nothing left to ask of him.

All his debts had been paid in full.

He opened the top drawer, to take out the hand gun.

He weighed it in his hand, laughing softly.

This gift from Tsong, when they had been so much younger, even before their siblings had brought their families together in marriage.

Still beautiful, after all these years. Outrageously expensive it had been, back then.

"I have been lucky indeed" Chang said to himself. "Most of the time."

He rose his right hand, and looked into the setting sun.

Outside, at the sound of the shot, Cherry Blossom rose, made three deep kowtows facing the closed door, and called for a clerk to help with her luggage.

Vanessa was waiting for her in the car they would use for the first part of their journey to their new home, far, far away, as far away as they could get without leaving China.

"Is it done?" Vanessa asked calmly.

"Yes" Li told her. "We're free."

Vanessa nodded, and started the car.

Li kept silent, apparently enjoying the passing scenery.

A chapter in her life had ended today. Her eyes stung, and a muscle close to her heart was hurting terribly.

He had been a great man.

And yet – the best was yet to come.

Impulsively, she took the other woman's hand. "Didn't you once ask me how, in my home province, we do say 'I love you'?"

"Yes" Vanessa Moriarty replied, surprised. "I believe I did. You said your people never say it, so you could not tell me."

"Well" Cherry Blossom said "I guess I'm going to tell you now."

"I'd like that" Vanessa told her, after a short pause. "I'd like that very much."

Days later, both women had long since reached their mountain refuge, on one grizzly London morning, Mycroft Holmes put down his phone with gritted teeth.

"It's true" Anthea said. "Professor Chang Tse-Dong is dead."

"So it seems."

"Anything to arrange, Sir?"

"No. Nothing, thank you. Doesn't really concern us, does it. Not at the moment, anyway."

She nodded and left him.

Mycroft took a special mobile from his drawer, the one he used for this operation alone, and sent a single word to a certain address from which this word was meant to travel half around the globe, all the way to Souzhou:

"_Departure_".

Subsequently, Mycroft sent another message:

"_Vorbei! MH."_

Indeed, it was over. Almost before it had really begun. The chance of a lifetime, the undetected mole at the very heart of Chinese Intelligence - gone.

Demirkan would be unhappy, uncommunicative, and most of all – inactive.

This was, after all, an MI 6-operation.

Unfortunately, an operation of which MI 6 had no idea, as it was Mycroft's Holmes' brainchild and his alone.

Mycroft took his own, private mobile and pressed a well known short cut.

As always, he only got the mailbox. "Sherlock, I need you to pick somebody up. Route can't be secured, risk is high. It's life or death but there's no one I could ask but you."

Subsequently, Tarantula spoke to someone in the British embassy in Canada. About a planed visit of a delegation from British Columbia to Victoria's partner town Souzhou, return via the port of Shanghai. No questions asked."

The other hesitated, took a sharp breath, and finally said "Why not?"

"Thanks. I owe you."

"Yes, you do Mycroft. And I'll not forget it!"

A while later, Mycroft got a text message: "_No way, brother dear. Give Carruthers my regards. SH"_

Tarantula closed his eyes. He thought about it, his only option, as he saw it. Now that the Lucky Cat was dead, he couldn't risk pondering _any_ other option. Still, he didn't like it, not one bit.

And yet he texted back:

"_It's The Woman, Sherlock."_

The answer came at lightening speed.

"O_n my way. Need excuses for John and the others. SH_."

"It's not John I should apologize to" Mycroft muttered to himself. "For all it is worth, I feel so rotten I could puke."

Mycroft almost choked on the absurd irony of it all.

By sheer coincidence, Sherlock had been perfectly placed in Souzhou, and truly believable as a turned operative. His unnatural memory and mind, his reckless courage, his insatiable desire to impress his brother, again and again – a chance, one in a million.

And yet Mycroft had brought him back.

Another man had risked his neck.

After all his years in this chair, Tarantula should have known he'd not be spared in the end.

Carruthers had gone to China to spare Sherlock the risk, now Sherlock would have to risk his life saving the substitute. Manipulated by is own brother, who used the only love interest Sherlock had ever shown.

The intelligence gathered in Souzhou was priceless. The treasure would make it back to England inside the operative's living brain or not at all.

Anthea was astonished to learn that her boss, in the midst of daily working hours, had gone out for a stroll. And to meet his younger brother.

"Where to?" she angrily asked her colleague.

"Kensington Gardens" the other said, shrugging to indicate that she knew nothing more.

Anthea thought about that for a moment.

She was worried.

More than worried, to be exact.

There was this nagging feeling in her guts that told her something bad was about to happen.

Again, she pressed a button and gave another order. "The Carruthers file. On my desk. At once!"

Whatever her boss was up to, she would find out.

Two things she already knew by intuition:

Mycroft had been wicked. Wicked enough to keep it even from her.

And, as always, it had something to do with Sherlock Holmes.

While she ploughed through the faked file of Carruther's treason and defection, Mycroft panicked. He had given Sherlock his orders, the directions, the contacts - and little brother was gone.

The whole night Mycroft tried to make it all undone.

But his guilty conscience came too late.

Sherlock didn't answer.

As he had said - he was on his way.

_**The end**_

**A/N: So, that was it, dear reader. I thought I'd never finish this. Originally I wanted to end it with the last chapter. but then I thought I could not forget about the formidable Lucky Cat, Vanessa and Carruthers, just like that. I hope you like Chang's grand exit.**

**Thanks to all who followed the story and shared their thoughts with me. Please, do so again and give me some reviews. Thanks in advance. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all.  
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